


Reticence

by disarmlow



Series: From Dust [1]
Category: American Horror Story: Murder House
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, I REGRET NOTHING, I was in a dark place, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Jealousy, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, basically everything dark inside me, this is a violent world ok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-15
Updated: 2016-07-15
Packaged: 2018-07-24 04:03:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 21
Words: 29,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7493091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disarmlow/pseuds/disarmlow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Death goes on for two star crossed lovers in Murder House. (Violate.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. we've broke our mirrors

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter titles are all Nivana lyrics, if anyone was wondering. :) I'm sorry for how painful this all is. Thank you.
> 
> Cross-posted a long ass time ago at ff.net. I'm Kristybelle there. Kthx

If you are born blind, you never miss the light.

Violet has found a cold comfort. She goes to Travis, first, because he's the only one not suffering in that godforsaken house. His handsome, boyish face and lean body doesn't hurt, either. The Boy Dahlia might be gruesome in police photos but in death, he was preserved.

At first it was awkward for her. She'd take off all her clothes and come on to him, but then blush all over her body, down to her breasts and her navel. She couldn't meet his eyes. Travis laughed at her, but not unkindly. He joked with her, smiled at her, and oh his hands, his fingers. He wasn't much for conversation, but he made her laugh. He made her come. He made her forget. For a time, for hours, sometimes days. There was so much to forget, and so much time. She got a lot of practice. She began to move gracefully, languidly, and she was able to hold his gaze. She loved the look he got, that blank, awed look in his eyes right before he came and it was best when she was on top. Best when she could feel that odd sense of power. Afterward, his pillow talk was all jokes and laughter. Being dead had humbled Travis a bit, and Violet genuinely liked him. It wasn't love. It wasn't Tate.

Afterward, she'd always think that, and then she'd remember all over again. The thing about love is that it breaks you over and over again. Loving Tate had been what hurt her when she discovered all the dark, dirty things about him. She couldn't go on loving him and hating him and being incapable of imagining not being with him. He was a killer, a rapist, a liar. She loved him anyway. She'd committed suicide so that she could stop loving Tate. She couldn't be with him. She could never forgive him. It didn't change anything. In a hundred years, she'd still be feeling this way. It was unbearable.

So she escaped.

First with Travis, but sometimes that wasn't enough. Sometimes the anger and hatred boiled up so much Travis couldn't handle it. He was afraid of her when she was like that, shied away from her and made himself scarce. He was all for the sex, but not the pain.

Once she was looking for him, raging and screaming down in the basement, and someone clamped a big hand over her mouth, shoved her against the wall. Furious, she looked up and for an instant, she thought it was Tate and her dead heart skipped a beat. Then she took in the hard lines of the face, the shorter, blonder hair. Patrick.

"What do you think you're doing down here, little girl?" He leaned in close, and his breath was minty and sweet, but hot.

"Let me go!" She screamed, but it came out muffled and weak, his hand still crushing her mouth. She tasted sweat, salty and heady.

"The last time I let a woman tell me what to do I was in the third grade. You're angry. You're suffering. Boo hoo. We all are." He let go of her and took a step back. His eyes were ice blue.

She didn't move, staring at him, angry tears spilling over onto her face. Suddenly, Patrick came at her. He put his hand around her throat, hard, enough to hurt. Then, shockingly, he shoved his other hand down her pants.

She gasped, moaned. "What are you doing? You're gay!"

Patrick laughed. "I'm dead."

And so it was. He fucked her, hurt her, cut her, sometimes killed her again. There was no talking afterward, no kisses on the forehead or games of go fish like with Travis. There was just her, bleeding and bruised on the basement floor. Travis and Patrick. Two men so like the two sides of the boy she loved. A sweet, joking boy and a harsh, brutal man. If it is cold comfort she seeks, she has received the coldest.


	2. shiver the whole night through

Light is blinding and painful when you've only known darkness.

Tate wishes he were stronger. He knows he shouldn't watch her. He knows he shouldn't follow her around like a lost puppy, but he can't help himself. At first, he thinks he isn't strong enough to punish himself like he should be punished. He thinks hell would be not seeing her, not allowing himself to look at her or watch her sleep or follow her. He is wrong.

Mostly she just cried in her room, listening to Nirvana. He sat in the chair next to her bed, crying with her, wanting so badly to touch her hair, to comfort her. Then she'd go and have dinner with her family, play with the baby, roll the ball with Beau. She'd even struck up a couple of conversations with Hayden outside, smoking. He cried then, too, because she seemed happy sometimes. God, you'd think being dead would dry up your tear ducts after a while. Those were tears of joy. He didn't want her to be alone.

Then she broke her promise. She cut herself. He couldn't stop her. He'd stand behind her, his hands hovering over her shoulders, more goddamn tears pouring down his face. Screaming at her to stop but he didn't want her to hear him. She cut deeper and deeper. She couldn't very well kill herself again.

The worst day Tate had ever had begun with watching Violet sleep. She'd finally dozed off listening to Kurt belt out _Smells Like Teen Spirit_ and Tate had begun to doze off himself. He felt comforted when she rested. Then he jumped in his chair when she woke up with a start, screaming. Tears streamed down her face and she bolted out of the room. He followed, worried. He knew she couldn't do any real physical damage to herself but he was so afraid that she'd lose herself. Lose herself in the darkness as he had when he put on the rubber suit.

He followed her outside to the gazebo, where she met Travis and Hayden playing cards. She wiped her tears.

"Hey Travis," she said slowly, "can I talk to you for a minute? Meet me in my room, okay?"

"Sure thing." He looked a bit confused.

Hayden threw down her cards disgustedly. "Shitty hand, anyway."

Violet walked back to her room quickly and Tate was on her heels. He thought it was good she was reaching out to someone. Maybe she wanted to talk to someone at last. Travis seemed like an odd choice because he wasn't the brightest -his thoughts stopped entirely as Violet ripped off her shirt and unzipped her jeans.

"Violet, what are you doing?" Tate circled her, baffled.

Travis came to the door and didn't knock, just threw it wide.

Violet was in her bra and panties and she didn't look at Travis, just threw herself forward and pressed her mouth to his, hard.

Tate drew in a sharp breath and stumbled backward, the back of his knees hitting the seat of the chair. He sat down with a slump. "Oh, God, Violet-"

Travis stood motionless for an instant and then took a step back. "Whoa, whoa, little chickadee...what's going on?"

"I want you," She said haltingly, blushing a bright red.

Travis chuckled. "All right, all right. You just had to say so. Aren't you a little young?" He looked a little taken aback, and Tate prayed to a God that he had never believed in that Travis would turn around and walk out.

"Wasn't Constance a little old?" She snapped, offended.

Travis laughed again. He held up in his hands in a "truce" gesture. "Fair enough. Why me?"

"You're hot. You're nice to me. I like you. Why does it matter?" She advanced forward.

Tate sat up straighter in the chair, watching with eyes wide, his heart beating so hard he felt like it might explode.

"You're just a kid," Travis said softly, but Tate felt a sickening lurch in his stomach. Travis was weakening.

Violet didn't say another word but pressed her little hand flush against Travis's crotch. Travis's gasp was the indicator that he was unable to resist any woman, much less an innocent beauty like Violet.

Tate felt as if there were thousands of bees buzzing to life within him. It was worse than any bad coke trip he'd ever had He felt as if his skin was crawling off his body. The bees were stinging everywhere and the pain was running up and down his arms and legs. Tears burned behind his eyes like fire but they wouldn't come. For once, they wouldn't come.

He watched them, sat unmoving in the chair as he listened to her heavy breathing as Travis undressed her completely, watched them go to the bed. Travis teased her, went down on her. Tate dug his fingers into his scalp and they came away bloody, covered with fine, blonde hair.

When Travis entered her, Tate stood up, screaming, and every dark and murderous urge he'd ever had came boiling up in his throat. He had no more thoughts, only rage screaming through every long dead vein in his body. He broke his promise to himself in that moment, and he flickered in and out of existence. Good thing Violet's eyes were tightly closed in ecstacy.

In the years that he'd been dead, Tate had little concept of time. He had died more than two decades ago but he had been in purgatory up until now. Now he truly was in hell. He wasn't sure if it was hours, days, or weeks that he stood there, screaming, his heart slamming against his chest plate with such intensity that he felt bruised.

Suddenly, it was over, and Travis rolled off of Violet. Tate's knees gave out and he slumped to the floor, his kneecaps cracking against the hardwood audibly. He thought he understood, now. He had been given Violet not as a gift, but as a curse. He'd been doomed to wander these halls, loving her. He'd been doomed to watch her take pleasure from other men, to watch her move on. He had been given everything he had ever wanted and he had made choices to lose it forever. He'd been doomed to know the brightest light ...and then to be thrust back into darkness so cold and damp nothing good could ever be there.

A sound other than the rushing of his own blood in his ears floated into Tate's brain. The tears came then, dripping through eyelids that felt as if they were full of broken glass.

It was Kurt Cobain on Violet's Ipod, singing softly, hauntingly.

_My girl my girl_

_don't lie to me_

_tell me where did you sleep_

_last night_


	3. you hang me out to dry

_Thud, thud, thud, thud..._

Over and over and over that sickening noise rang through the house. Everywhere Hayden went, she could hear it. She went out onto the gazebo. She liked it there. There's something oddly comforting about standing right over your own dead body. She lits a cigarette and then _thud, thud, thud._

It was coming from the basement, of course. Maybe it was that creepy baby Thaddeus banging his rattle on the floor. But it sounded...meaty. _Thud, thud, thud..._ Hayden exhaled smoke in disgust and put her cigarette out. It's one thing being dead, but another to be dead with so many other annoying people.

Hayden stalked down to the basement. "Who the hell is making that noise?" She walked around the corner and shrieked.

Tate was banging his head against the stone wall over and over again. Blood and hair and bits of bone crusted the stone. It looked like he'd been doing this for days. He turned to look at her and he was covered in blood down to his chin. "What do you want?" He said thickly.

Hayden held her hand over her chest. " Funny to think this place can still scare the hell out of me. What are you doing?"

"Trying to stop it," he said absently, and headbutted the wall again.

Hayden flinched at the cracking sound he made. "Stop it! Jesus." He turned to look at her again and Hayden felt a twinge of sympathy. Tears tracked through the gore on his face. She knew that look in his eyes. She'd had that look.

"What happened?" She asked, her voice growing soft.

Tate turned and slumped against the wall, resting his elbows on his knees. "I'm in hell."

Hayden chuckled. "Aren't we all?" She sat down next to him. She put a hand on his shoulder and he flinched. "Hey, look, I know I'm a bitch but I know a little something about heartache. I know Violet hurt you."

"You don't know;" Tate said brokenly, his breath hitching in a sob, "you don't know anything. She's good. She's a good person."

"Good people hurt people all the time."

"She didn't mean it. She doesn't know."

"She doesn't know what?"

Tate shook his head, crying. "She's moving on. She's happy. She's got someone to love, now."

Hayden put it together. "You found out she's fucking Travis?"

Tate put his head in his hands and made a sound like a wounded dog.

"Oh, kid. That's not love."

He didn't lift his head, but stopped howling. "What is it, then?"

"It's lust. It's just fucking. It doesn't always have to mean anything."

"She likes it," Tate said darkly, looking up at her.

"Well, he's pretty good at it." Hayden admitted, and Tate's dark eyes flashed. "Don't take it to heart, kid. All us girls do that when we get our heart broken."

"Do what?"

"Well...whore around. It's easier not to think about your ex when you're fucking someone else. She doesn't love him."

"They play go fish. He makes her laugh." Tate sniffled and wiped his nose with his sleeve like a child.

"Tate." Hayden placed a hand on his shoulder gingerly, but this time Tate allowed it. "Look at me."

Tate obliged, his eyes full of tears. Hayden thought she had never seen him when he wasn't upset. Poor kid.

"Look, you fucked up. You listened to Nora and me and you got everyone in a mess. You raped her mother, murdered her mother, her father."

" _You_ murdered her father!" Tate snapped.

"Ok, ok, you're right. I murdered Ben. Know why I did it?"

"Because you're a heartless bitter bitch?" Tate cracked a smile.

Hayden laughed. "Yes. But also...because I love him. Because he hurt me. Because...I want him with me, always."

"But he's with Vivien. He's...happy."

Hayden shrugged. "Happy is relative. But either way, I want to have the chance for him to forgive me. For him to love me again. It's pathetic, but it's true. Ben is my soulmate. I can't give up. Neither can you."

"She doesn't want me."

"She does want you. But she can't forgive you. It's going to take time, Tate. It's going to take a lot of Violet finding herself."

"Finding herself underneath Travis?" Tate snorted.

"And whoever else she wants to, Tate. You don't have the right to stop her. She told you goodbye."

"I 's just...what do I do? I can't stop my thoughts. I keep replaying it over and over again."

"You _watched?_ Jesus, and I thought I was a masochist."

"It's my penance. I thought I could do it before, with that kid who moved it. I wanted to kill him so Violet would have someone. So she wouldn't be alone. I can't do it. It hurts too much. I can't take it."

"No one can. That's love for you, Tate. You can't take any of it but somehow, you do. It breaks you over and over again, but you keep coming back for more. I know I've made a lot of mistakes in my life and after I died, but I can say I always fought for what I wanted. Can you say that, Tate?"

Tate looked up, and Hayden was gone. He stood up and wiped blood and tears from his face. Hayden was right. He had an eternity to spend waiting for Violet to forgive him. Why not spend it fighting for her?


	4. no, i can't see you every night

Violet gently pushed Travis out of her bedroom. He grinned at her. "Hey, hey, I can take a hint. Wham, bam, thank-"

"Don't, Travis. It's never as funny as you think it is." Violet was restless. It hadn't worked, being with Travis. Usually he could charm her out of her funk but she was feeling pretty dark. It might be time to go down to the basement again, see if she could scare up Patrick. Scare being the operative word.

Travis pouted boyishly, and Violet cracked a smile to appease him. "Later we'll play some cards. Texas Hold 'Em, maybe."

Travis kissed her cheek. "Sure thing, chickadee. Later." He shrugged on his flannel shirt.

Violet closed the door and turned around to meet Tate's eyes. He was sitting in her chair, one blond curl wrapped around his pinky. Her heart jolted at this childish, achingly familiar gesture, and then fluttered with panic.

"You can't be here!" Tears were already welling in her eyes. "I told you to go away!"

Tate stood, holding his hands out. "Please, Violet, just...just one minute. I just have something to say."

Looking at him made it so hard to breathe. She knew she was dead and not breathing anyway but it hurt her chest nonetheless. She averted her eyes and sat down on the bed. "60 seconds, and I want you gone. Forever."

Tate flinched at the finality of her words, but his eyes were dry. "That's what I wanted to talk to you about, Violet," he said softly. "I don't want to bother you. I'll keep my promise and go away. I'll leave you alone. I just thought...we're going to be doing this forever. It's hard...not just because I love you," his voice hitched a little, but he kept it from breaking with effort. "but it's hard because I have to focus a lot to be invisible all the time and I don't always know when you'll be walking by...I don't follow you anymore."

Violet looked up at him suddenly, her eyes wide and wet. "You followed me?"

"For a while," he said, swallowing hard. "just...you know. I couldn't help myself."

"You spied on me?" Her voice wasn't angry.

"No! I mean...yes. I'm sorry." He put his hands behind his back like he had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

He looked so much like a boy, then. Always. He died so young. So did she. God, this _house_...what it did to them... Violet stood up, her heart seeming to swell painfully within her chest. It hurt to look at him, but some part of her felt that she owed him that much. It was shocking to think she owed him anything, after everything he'd done, but there it was.

"You want me to just...let you be around. You won't try to talk to me...come to my room or follow me to the gazebo..." Violet paused, thinking of her black interactions with Patrick. "To the basement..."

"No. I don't want to follow you anymore," he said flatly, looking down quickly, but not before she saw a flash of hurt across his face.

Violet suddenly understood, and her hand flew to her mouth. "Oh, God, you...you _watched_ me? With..."

"Travis," Tate finished, grinding the name out as if it hurt him to say it. "Just once. I'm sorry."

Violet was so relieved that he hadn't witnessed her shameful trysts with Patrick that it took her a moment to process what he'd said. I'm sorry. Over, and over again. I'm sorry. It was all for nothing, wasn't it? All those apologies, all those tears. His soul was still stained with blood. The blood of innocents. The blood of her mother. Violet hardened.

"I'm allowed to do as I please. I'm not yours anymore."

Tate flinched, still looking at the ground. "I know."

"It doesn't matter. I'm not punishing you. I'm with Travis because I want to be."

His eyes shot to hers, a tortured bright black, shining with unshed tears. "With him?"

Violet ignored that, but she couldn't keep looking into those eyes. It hurt too much. Everything about him hurt her. "I won't make you be invisible all the time, but don't expect me to come looking for you. Don't expect me to start talking to you or playing cards - this is not like that. We are not friends. We are not anything."

"I know. Thank you."

Violet didn't respond. She looked up at him and their eyes met for a quiet moment. Tate stood motionless, and then tore his eyes away. He turned and walked out of her room, closing the door softly behind him.


	5. with the lights out, it's less dangerous

Tate had always been weak. He'd always had trouble relating to the world, dealing with his emotions. After dying, after Violet, he was finding himself stronger than he had ever imagined.

After he'd seen Violet and Travis together, he thought he would never be able to go into Violet's room again. He thought seeing that bed, those same sheets on which he and Violet had laughed and loved and discovered each other would break him completely. For days he'd tried to get up the courage. Then he'd turned the corner and seen Travis coming out of Violet's room half dressed and smiling and Tate had backed against the wall, fading out. Images of Travis touching Violet, teasing her flashed through his head and it was all he could do to keep from fading back in and punching Travis right in his smug and smiling face.

He knew it wasn't fair. He knew he had no right. But he was so _angry_. Everything in him hurt and stabbed and tore because he couldn't be with Violet, couldn't touch her, couldn't talk to her. Violet had let Travis in, let him in places that even Tate had rarely been and it made him rage.

He'd almost faded out to the basement right then, given up. Then he thought of holding Violet in the bathtub, willing her to live, sticking his fingers down her throat and fighting for her, and he materialized in her chair.

Being in the room wasn't as bad as he'd feared, but seeing her... Her eyes wet and panicked, her hair flying as she screamed at him. It hurt just to be near her.

Then she'd said it. She'd said she was "with Travis." Those were her words. He tried not even to think about it because he didn't know if he could refrain from breaking down and begging her to forgive him.

He'd made it. He'd made it through a thousand small injuries and found them deeper than Violet had ever cut herself. He'd made a move. He'd made a stand, weak though it was, to bring Violet back into his world again. He would abide her wishes, but now there was a door that she might be weak enough to open.

Now he was left with his thoughts.

Which is why, whenever he found Hayden searching through the cupboards in the kitchen, he prayed she was doing something that might distract him for a few hours.

"What are you doing?" He asked, resting his elbows on the countertop.

"AHA!" Hayden shrieked in triumph and pulled out a handle of Jim Beam.

Tate wrinkled his nose. "Whiskey? Really?"

"Left over from all those stupid open houses. Don't tell me you don't drink."

Tate shrugged. "I preferred uppers."

"Well, let's be honest, you're pretty down on a _good_ day. I'm sorry I don't have a half pound of blow handy, but I'm a little out of touch with my dealer, being dead and all."

"Will it even work? I mean...we're not technically even drinking it, right?"

"I don't know. It's worth a try. I've got plenty I'd like to forget. How about you?"

Tate thought of Travis coming out of Violet's bedroom. "You don't know the half of it."

Hayden opened the bottle and poured a healthy portion into two glasses.

"I guess these open houses are good for something."

"Worried a tween will move in to your old room and seduce Violet?"

Tate gave her a withering look. "If that ever happened I wouldn't stand in her way."

Hayden picked up the glasses and walked around the counter. She handed him the glass. "You gotta man up, kid." She toasted him and then shot back the whiskey.

Tate did the same, grimacing. He looked over at Hayden and her eyes were watering.

"Tastes the same," she choked.

Tate couldn't help but laugh at her expression, at this situation. Here he was, eternally 17, trapped in a house where the girl he loved wouldn't speak to him, drinking whiskey with a girl almost as twisted as he was. If he had been able to glimpse this afterlife while he was alive, he would have probably thought twice before pulling that pistol on the SWAT team.

Hayden laughed, too, and the sound made an odd ringing through the house, usually so silent and devoid of mirth.

She poured another glass for each of them. She did another air toast. "Drink up,"

"We're not getting any deader," Tate agreed, and threw back the whiskey.

Two hours and half a handle of Beam later, Tate and Hayden sat cross legged on the floor, playing Never Have I Ever.

"Never have I ever killed anyone," Hayden said with a crooked grin.

"Come on!" Tate protested. "That's a gimme." He was arguing, but he hadn't felt this good since Violet shunned him. The alcohol was doing it's job - his head felt loose on his shoulders. His heart felt lighter than it had in years. Hayden was helping too - she was a fun drunk.

She was grinning at him again, her eyes wide and somewhat unfocused. "You have to drink for every murder."

"What? No way!" He was laughing, though, knowing that she set him up. He finished his drink.

Hayden finished hers, too. "Since you were such a good sport, kid."

Tate grinned back. It felt odd on his face. It'd been so long since he'd had reason to smile. "You keep calling me kid. You know I'm older than you. I'll be forty, soon."

"Get out! Well we know my penchant for older men."

Tate shoved her playfully. She almost fell over, laughing. "At least I didn't get wrinkles. You're what, thirty?"

Hayden gasped. "You dick! I'm twenty three. Only been legal to drink two years. We both died so young." A shadow passed over her face. "So how goes the good fight?"

"What?"

"Violet. Fighting for her? Remember? How's it going?"

The smile faded from Tate's face. He could have gone the rest of the night without thinking of Violet. That would have been unusual. That would have been a reprieve. "Ok, I guess. Not much to report. What about yours?"

"What are you talking about?"

"You said you wanted Ben to forgive you. It seems like we're fighting the same fight."

Hayden frowned and shrugged. "I don't know. He and Vivien have been pretty scarce lately. Do you think they're in the post baby glow?"

"You haven't gone looking for him?"

"He wouldn't like it. He'd yell at me, tell me he doesn't love me. Never loved me." She said glumly.

Tate winced. "Ouch."

"Yeah. At least you have that. At least you know she loves you."

"For now." A gloom seemed to have descended on the room. Tate felt his shoulders stiffening up again.

Hayden stood, a little unsteadily, and reached out for Tate's glass. "And...the flip side of alcohol. Maybe you were right about the uppers, kid. Refill?"

Tate shook his head. "I guess not."

"Going to walk by Violet's room repeatedly until she invites you inside?"

"Probably."

Hayden gave him a little half smile. "You're a hopeless romantic, kid. I'd give anything for Ben to look at me the way you look at Violet."

"We've got a lot of time. Maybe one day he will."

"Maybe. I'm going down to the basement to find Hugo. I'm feeling stabby. Thanks for drinking with me, kid. It's a lot worse to drink alone."

Tate stood up. He had sobered considerably, but his head was still buzzy. He also felt a weird fondness for Hayden. He thought it was partly alcohol and partly a sense of empathy. She was turned away from him, walking toward the kitchen. Tate followed her and put a hand on her shoulder. She turned and Tate drew her into his arms, hugging her.

"Don't let it take you," he whispered. "I know it's hard. I know it hurts. You can't let it break you. You can be a good person."

Hayden pulled away and looked at him. Her eyes were wet. "I'll try."

Tate walked down the hallway to Violet's room, but as he turned the corner he knew she wasn't there. He was feeling tired, drained, but still more relaxed than before his time with Hayden. He trailed in to the living room to lie down and although he hadn't had an uninterrupted night's sleep in what seemed like forever, he was gone in an instant. The sleep was blissfully dreamless, for once absent of that innocent face, those wise brown eyes.

Tate woke with a start, his head pounding. Something was wrong. He heard footfalls pounding up the basement steps and he ran there, instantly thinking that Violet was in trouble. Maybe those assholes who had tried the reenactment were bothering her, or -

Hayden threw the basement door wide as he reached it and she looked up at him with a panicked, frightened expression. "Tate," she said.

Tate thought it was the first time she had ever actually said his name. "What's wrong? What happened?"

Hayden hesitated. "Nothing. Just got spooked. Thaddeus, you know-"

"You're _lying._ Is it Violet? Violet and Travis?" Tate's heartbeat sped up.

She hesitated again. "Yes. I'm sorry, Tate, let's just go have another drink-"

Tate examined her face. "You're lying again. Damnit, Hayden! Is she okay?"

"Tate, listen to me. You can't control what happens in this house. No one can. You can't-"

Tate pushed past her, hard. "If she's in trouble-"

"She's in trouble, all right, but Tate it's not something-"

Tate stalked past her, down the stairs.

"Tate, don't!" Hayden's voice followed him down the stairs but she remained at the doorway.

Tate was singularly fixated on finding Violet, on saving her. He heard her screaming, muffled, and his feet moved faster down the stairs. He reached the bottom of the stairs and he saw her blond hair streaming over the basement floor. It was matted with blood. A cry of her name died in his throat as he took in the scene.

Her arms were tied painfully and tightly behind her back. She was hogtied, trussed. She was naked, her pale skin seeming to glow in the dark. Blood ran on the floor and from her sides where deep cuts wept.

Patrick, blonde and muscular and sweating, was thrusting into her and simultaneously slamming her head down onto the cement floor. Violet was crying out in pain but her breathing was shallow and hitching and horribly familiar.

She was coming.

Tate couldn't speak. All at once, every good feeling he'd had in the last few hours dissipated. He and Hayden had drank to their murders. It wasn't funny. He'd shot a sixteen year old girl in the head as she'd begged and sobbed for her life. He'd murdered two men who wanted nothing more than to celebrate Halloween and to find their way back to each other. He'd raped, impregnated, and inadvertently killed a woman who had not only just experienced a horrible miscarriage, but who had given birth to the only person he had ever loved. He had failed to save the life of the woman he loved. Now, he'd failed to save her again. Her light was doused because of all the things he'd done, all the lives he'd taken, all the souls he'd damned.

He turned and went back up the stairs, feeling as if his feet were encased in cement. He reached the kitchen and Hayden was sitting at the bar, a drink in her hand. She looked at him, concerned, and Tate snatched the bottle of whiskey sitting on the island. He stuck it under his arm and strode toward the door.

"Tate," Hayden called, "where are you going?"

"Away," Tate said, and opened the back door to go out to the gazebo.


	6. i'll kiss your open sores

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: some ambiguous consent here.

Violet had been a self-mutilator since she was twelve years old. The ritual of cutting had been the only way that she could express herself, the only way she could let some of the angst she was feeling out.

The razor blade was nothing compared to Patrick. In life, he'd been an asshole. In death, he was a devil. Blond and blue eyed, such angelic looks, but God, the horrible things he'd do to her. She guess that fit with the devil theme, too. She'd learned in school that Lucifer meant "full of light." Blinding, horrible light.

Violet felt the pressure of her emotion all the time - especially after death. Especially after Tate. Being with Travis made her forget for a while. Made her feel brighter, less angry, in less pain. Being with Patrick was better. The pain and humiliation and...relief. It made her feel empty.

Violet was beginning to understand her father a lot better. When Ben had cheated with Hayden and ruined their family life, Violet had been furious and confused. As a virgin, she couldn't have known what an escape sex could be. What a bloodletting.

The ritual with Patrick was a ritual, just like her self-mutilating before. Afterward, she and Patrick never spoke. He disappeared into the basement, leaving her there panting and bleeding. After her heartbeat slowed and the blood clotted, Violet would sleep there, for a time. When she managed to sleep in her room, she would dream. Nightmares, mostly, but the worst dreams were the ones where she woke up smiling. The ones where she and Tate were together, untouched by his violence and her death and the torment of this house. She would wake smiling with tears streaking down her face. Her sleep on the basement floor was blissfully dreamless, empty.

Then, Violet took a shower. She would turn the water on painfully hot, until it stained her pale skin red. She always stood there for a time, watching as her dead blood swirled down the drain. She'd stand there until the water ran clear. Sometimes there was so much blood that she'd stand there until the water ran cold, but she'd stand there enduring it, shivering, her teeth chattering.

This time, the water was ice cold by the time she was clean. Finally, she turned off the water and checked her wounds. She was already healing. She picked bits of bone out of her hair, brushed out her long, blond locks.

She knew Hayden had seen them, had gone running back upstairs in disgust.

At least it had Hayden. She was the least likely to judge or taunt her with the information she had. Death had first crazed Hayden, but eventually, she'd mellowed. Judging from the big calendar hanging on the kitchen wall, it'd been almost seven years since Hayden, Violet, Ben, and Vivien had expired on this cursed property. That kind of time could change anyone. Seven years in this damned house, with only a handful of reprieves on Halloween.

Violet saw time stretching out in an endless sea of suffering. Not just for her, but for all of them. Nothing but time to reflect on how young they'd died. To reflect on all the wrongs done to them and all the wrongs they'd done.

She thought of Tate, dead for twenty years and just now beginning to realize all of his sins. The spear of pain she felt was muted. She dressed in a simple a-line dress. She went without leggings -she barely felt the cold. She looked in the mirror.

Such a pretty girl stared back at her. Always a girl, never a woman. The dress clung to what few curves she had, showing a small waist, the slight turning out at the hips and bust. A pretty, empty girl. The blank look in her eyes should have scared her, but Violet Harmon feared few things.

She walked out into the hallway and heard faint music. She must have left her IPod somewhere. They had all hidden a few things from the police when they'd come to pick up their things, and Violet's IPod had been the most important to her. She usually kept it with her, so it was strange that she'd left it.

She followed the sound out to the gazebo and in the darkness saw a red cherry of a cigarette glowing.

"Hayden?" She called.

The music was loud, so she had to yell.

Then she heard the singing, soft though it was, and her heart dropped. She turned to go, and the music shut off, abruptly.

"I didn't take your iPod, if that's what you think;" Tate said, a little too loudly. His tone was off. "it's a boombox. A cd. My mother gave it to me for one of my pointless after death birthdays. I hated her, but she had good taste in music, at least."

Violet felt strange. The empty void that usually filled her was lessening, filling with all the pain and rage that came along with seeing Tate, but she still felt detached, as if she was watching this scene from outside her body. She felt as if she couldn't control what she would do next. It wasn't her, after all, this pretty, empty girl. It was someone else.

"I did steal a pack of cigarettes, though," Tate continued petulantly.

Her mind blank, Violet turned back toward him and walked up on to the gazebo. It was so dark she almost stumbled into him. He was sprawled lazily on one of the benches on the gazebo.

"Give me one."

Tate handed her a cigarette, and because Violet could barely see it, their hands brushed as she took it from him.

Electricity raced through her, and his sharp intake of breath was audible in the quiet night. It was the first time they'd touched in seven years. The flame he lit for her was shaking.

She dragged deeply on the cigarette, the smoke calming her nerves a bit. This close to him, she could smelled something sharp and medicinal.

"Are you drinking?"

Tate drew on his cigarette and the glow lit up his face for an instant. His eyes were bloodshot. "I'm pretty sure I'm drunk." She heard the boards creaking as he sat up straight on the bench.

Violet didn't speak. She felt the closeness of him painfully. She felt the space between them, the inches of air floating betwixt their bodies feeling thick as molasses. She sat down next to him.

"I really did want you to be happy, you know;" he said, for the first time sounding a bit drunk, his words thick and slow. "I know I went about it in the wrong way, but that's what I wanted. I was telling the truth when I said I care about your feelings more than mine."

"I know," Violet said, and she seemed to be floating further and futher away from herself. If Violet were here, she surely would not be sitting this close to Tate, surely wouldn't be listening to him.

"I failed you in so many ways, Violet. I can say I'm sorry. I can say I love you. Both of those things are true but none of them matter. I realize that now. The only thing that matters is what I've allowed myself to become."

"What do you mean?"

"A monster," he said, so softly she could barely hear him.

Violet wanted to speak but her throat closed up, clogged with emotion.

"After I fell in love with you, I just wanted to be what you wanted. I wanted to change, for you, and I did. But it's not enough. You were right. I have to pay for what I've done."

Slowly, Violet was coming back to herself. Her aching heart was calling her back, and she felt sick that her shameful hours with Patrick had come down to this brief, brief reprieve. "I can't do this," she said flatly, and she stood and walked back toward the house.

As she neared the back steps, the security light flooded on, hurting her eyes, blinding her. Suddenly, she felt Tate in front of her, so close she could smell this whiskey on his breath. "You shouldn't have to pay for what I've done, Violet."

"Go away. I don't want this," she said with effort, completely back now, her heart pounding and straining against her chest. Her eyes adjusted and she could see his face for the first time that night. He looked more like the man he would have been and less like the boy that had died. Pain had lined his face a bit, and his eyes were a tortured black.

Time stopped for a moment as she felt Tate's familiar hand on her shoulder. His touch was soft, his long fingers wrapping around her thin arm almost completely. He might as well have touched her with a cattle prod. All the long dead cells in her body came to life and she hitched in a sobbing breath. "Tate," she whispered.

Then his grip tightened to a vise, his fingers digging bruises into her arm. He shoved her to the ground.

Violet looked up at him, stunned, and wondered if this is what he had looked like to the teenagers begging for their lives in the high school library. She wondered if this is what his face had looked like under the rubber mask while he raped her mother. Expressionless, eyes black and soulless, jaw set in a solid, hard line.

"Is this what you want, Violet?" HIs voice was frighteningly quiet.

She looked up at him, at his blank expression, and for one of the only times in her life, she was afraid. Not of him, and not of herself, but what they'd become together. How wrong they'd become.

"I wanted you!" She screamed, sobs wracking her body. It was like the bloodletting had never happened. "I told you that!"

Quick as lightning, something flashed across Tate's face, and then it was blank again. "You were attracted to the darkness," he said, kneeling down on the ground in front of her, "that's all. You died and then I couldn't save you from it. You're part of the darkness now, Violet. You're bathing in it. All of us are. You. Me." He paused, watched her face. "Patrick."

Evidently Hayden hadn't been the only witness. "You did this to me," She spat at him, rage boiling up in her, replacing the pain, replacing the sorrow. "You did this!"

"I know." His blank expression didn't change. He moved over her, holding himself up above her.

Through Violet's swimming eyes he seemed to be floating. He went down on his forearms, bringing their faces close enough together that she felt his blond curls on her face, wispy, soft. He crushed his mouth to hers, and Violet couldn't breathe. Her lungs ached, but she couldn't bear to breathe. She knew if she breathed in, she'd breathe him into her again, inhale him into her and she'd never ever be able to exorcise him again. For a moment, it was the same. It was like her dream.

Then it turned quickly into a nightmare. Tate put hand to her throat, crushing her larynx. She breathed in sharply through her nostrils, struggling for air. His other hand went first to unzip his jeans and then he shoved up her dress, tore her underwear.

She struggled beneath him, hatred coursing through her even as her body responded to him. Even as her hips bucked toward his hand she struggled to scream. Finally he broke contact with her mouth and breathing heavily, looked down at her with those blank, dark eyes.

"Go ahead," Violet croaked.

At the sound of her voice, Tate's hand loosened on her throat.

"Rape me like you did my mother."

Tate's blank face crumbled. His dark eyes flooded with tears. Violet felt the wetness on her own face and wasn't sure if it were her tears or his. Sobbing, Tate thrust into her, hard, painfully.

Violet's body was warm and ready in spite of the hatred in her heart. She cried out in pain and pleasure. Her heart screamed that she couldn't bear it, couldn' t bear it, couldn't bear it. Her love for him, her hatred, the longing.

Violet stiffened beneath him and she looked up into his tortured face. "I hate you," she said, and it was true, but it wasn't quite right. Her voice was breaking. _I hate that I love you_ was more true, but it was also more cruel.

Tate stilled at her words, his eyes searching her face, tears streaming down past his throat and into the collar of his shirt.

Suddenly, his lips were there, soft, fluttering all around the finger bruises he'd left. His lips left a trail of fire on her cold skin. "Violet," He half moaned, half sobbed, and at her name in his mouth, Violet felt all of her muscles relax.

Although her mind screamed at her, she arched up beneath him and she breathed him in. He smelled of whiskey and soap and cigarettes and she clutched her fingers in his blond curls and she wanted that breath to last forever, to keep inhaling him for days and weeks and years.

Tate moved within her, filling her, stretching her, and he moved his hands up to cup her face. He put his nose to hers, watching her face, so close that Violet couldn't tell her dark eyes from his. Violet's broken heart seemed too full, and she allowed herself to let go for just a few moments. She had been punishing Tate with her distance, her coldness, and in doing so, had been punishing herself. She gave them a short reprieve.

A bloodletting.

They were silent, reticient. There was only the sound of their quick breaths, their rustling in the grass, and the cicadas.


	7. the choice is yours don't be late

Tate woke up in the grass and when he opened his eyes he was sure he must be dreaming. Violet was curled up beside him, turned away from him, her long blonde hair brushing his bare arm. It felt like butterfly kisses on his cold skin. It felt like heaven.

His breath caught in his throat and he didn't dare to hope that he was actually awake. Vaguely, fuzzily, he remembered kissing her, feeling her soft breath on his face as he nuzzled her neck.

Unable to stop himself, he rolled up onto one elbow and brushed her hair away from her face. Violet's hair fell away and Tate stifled a moan of pain when he saw the purple bruises on her throat. He placed a shaking hand over them, softly, and his fingers matched them perfectly. Violet murmured in her sleep and rolled into a tighter fetal position.

It all came rushing back to him, then, and he remembered shoving her to the ground, forcing up her dress, forcing himself on her. He stifled a moan of anguish and sat up, holding his knees. His jeans were still unzipped. Tears burned behind his eyes but he couldn't take his gaze away from Violet, lying there with her arms wrapped around herself, with the bruises he'd made staining her pale skin. He'd hurt her. He'd forced himself on her because he'd been drunk and upset and he'd thought it was the only real way to be what she wanted. It was the only real way to punish himself. There was no worse feeling. There was no worse fate than knowing that he'd hurt her, violated her.

Violet turned in her sleep, rolling onto her back, and her dress rode up, exposing more bruises on her thighs, where he'd forced them open. Tate looked away, grimacing, and a sob caught in his throat.

He felt a blackness growing where his heart should be. Now, more than ever before, he understood what everyone else already seemed to know. He wasn't right. He wasn't human. Maybe he never was. His mother's womb had been cursed, after all. Everything he'd done in his life, good or bad, had been for the wrong reasons. Even when he tried to help, he'd twisted everything with violence and murder.

He heard footsteps coming down the back steps and he faded out to the basement.

He materialized almost on top of Hayden, who was smoking a cigarette and sitting on the basement steps.

She shrieked at him. "Holy shit, kid! Stop _doing_ that!" She caught a glimpse of his face, then, and stopped mid drag on her cigarette. "I'm sorry you saw that last night. I tried to stop you."

Tate shook his head. "It doesn't matter;" he said flatly, almost emotionlessly, "it's over."

"You shouldn't give up, kid," Hayden said, almost cheerily, putting a hand on his shoulder.

Tate shrugged her hand off violently. "It's OVER!" He screamed at her.

Hayden flinched. Tate thought he saw a flash of fear in her eyes.

She's right to be afraid, he thought miserably. I'm a monster.

"I'm sorry, Tate," she said softly.

He didn't speak.

"Maybe you should get out of the house. It's Halloween today, remember?"

He hadn't remembered. He didn't care. Tomorrow he'd be right back here where he started. He guessed it might give him an opportunity to get himself as far away from Violet as possible. She would be safe from him at least for a day.

He couldn't bear to look at Hayden, to say another word to her. She'd been good to him in the past few years. She had been a friend, and he didn't deserve that. He didn't deserve even a sliver of happiness. He faded out and faded back in on the front porch. He had been so depressed, so caught up in missing Violet and worrying about her happiness. The Halloween he'd spent with Violet on the beach was the last time he'd left the house.

It had also been the last time he'd seen those kids he'd killed in cold blood in the high school library.

A warm breeze blew through the trees around the house, but Tate felt cold through to his bones.

He pushed through the gates and began walking down the street. He didn't know where he was going, just put one foot in front of the other. It might have been minutes or hours, but somehow he found himself at his destination.

Westfield High School.

The school buses were still running, so Tate supposed this Halloween fell on a week day.

He had told Violet once that high school was only a blip in the time line. That you shouldn't get stuck there.

Those kids he'd murdered...they were all stuck here.

Without thinking, Tate walked in through the front doors. A teacher, a handsome blonde woman, no one Tate had known, smiled at him as he entered the school. Her name tag read Mrs. Morris.

"You're a bit early, you know. First period doesn't start until 9am. "Where are you headed?"

"The library," Tate said, and memory crushed down on him.

_On his way into the school his English teacher had tried to stop him in the hallway. She was older, blonde like Mrs. Morris. She had once scrawled a large A minus on a term paper he'd written._

_"Creative!" she'd written. "A bit too much cursing for an A plus, but I like your honesty._ _Sympathy for the Devil_ _is a great title for an essay about Heathcliff. I think you understand him very well."_

_Tate had been proud of that grade. He'd hidden it from his mother, kept it in his room underneath the bed._

_That day, he could barely focus on her face, his eyes wouldn't focus, his head buzzing with bees from the cocaine._

_"Where are you going?" She'd asked, a little concerned, but still smiling at him._

_"The library," he'd said, and pulled a pistol from the holster at his waist. The smile had barely faded from her face when he fired a single shot into her chest._

"No!" Tate yelled, slamming his fist against the lockers.

Mrs. Morris looked at him, her eyes widening. Her smile was fading, fading just like the teacher he'd murdered. God, he couldn't remember her name. He'd killed her in cold blood in this very hallway and he couldn't even remember her name. Tate cried out in anguish.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm so sorry."

He all but ran past her, toward the library.

She called after him, but he didn't hear. His heart was pounding too hard in his ears, blood rushing to his face.

The library doors were still open, but there were no students sitting at the computers or standing around the book stacks.

Tate remembered that they had barred these double doors. He went around to the back door, just as he had on that day, and turned the handle. It was unlocked, ready for a new school day. The library looked much the same. The carpet had been changed. Probably because of all the blood. Tate's stomach churned.

_He'd shot through the door. He'd come through the door and seen that he'd gotten the librarian in the chest, his first library casualty. Then he'd walked slowly around the book shelves, and seen that goth chick that hung around outside, sneaking cigarettes. Tiff or Steph or something. She wore black lipstick and fishnets and was always talking about how dark and cruel the world could be. She was cool. She'd let him bum a cigarette now and again and once they'd done a line of coke together before study hall. She'd snuck around the other side of the books but he pushed the rifle through the stacks. She shrieked, letting him know exactly where she was. She recognized him and her throat worked like she was trying to scream. He'd blown the right side of her skull off. He'd wanted it to be a clean shot but she threw a book at him as soon as she'd seen the rifle's barrel. It hit him in the shoulder and skewed his shot. She slumped to the floor but her body convulsed and shook._

Tate drew a shaking hand toward the bookcase she'd been standing at, picked a book at random. _Catcher in the Rye._ Tate continued to follow his the path. He breathed in through his nostrils. He could still smell the blood and the fear sweat from those long dead teenagers.

_He came around the rows of bookshelves. He could barely remember shooting the kid in the leather jacket who'd played an exceptional Stanley in that year's production of A Streetcar Named Desire or the smart kid, the one up for valedictorian. He hadn't known their names, anyway. The adrenaline had been rushing, then, rushing faster and faster and he'd been breathing hard and not thinking, just letting the rifle become an extension of his arm. Kyle, the quarterback, who'd once laughed so hard at a joke Tate had told in class that he'd nearly pissed himself, came up from under the table with his hands out. Tate put a clean shot through his forehead._

Tate puts his hand on the table. It's probably not the same table that he'd flipped over, hearing Chloe cry out in fear. It's probably not, but he feels the faint line of her fear flowing through the wood nonetheless.

A faint mechanical whirring breaks through his thoughts. Tate's head turns slightly toward the sound.

"Can I help you find anything, son?"

Tate closes his eyes. Tears creep from beneath his eyelids and down into the crease of his lips. He doesn't feel it, but tastes the salt. Tate recognizes the voice.

He doesn't know why he begins speaking out loud. "Chloe was the first girl I ever kissed;" he said, "in the second grade. We didn't run in the same circles after we got older, but she was always so fucking beautiful. She was always nice to me. She always waved at me in the hall, smiled at me even when her friends would snicker. She was nice to everyone. I remember...she screamed at the other cheerleaders for taunting Addie when she came down to walk me home from school. She was crying. It just broke her heart, you know? I remember thinking that the world was just going to break her. Just break her. She'd be beautiful until she graduated, and then she'd get married to some jerk and he'd cheat on her or beat her and then she'd just be sad. She'd get jaded; lose all that sweetness."

"Who _are_ you?" The librarian's voice was shaking.

"She wasn't just afraid, that day. She was _sad_. Not just for those kids that were bleeding out on the floor. For _me._ " Tate let out a sob. "She was sad for _me._ "

He turned to face his victim. The librarian had gray in his hair and his face was lined with years of hard times. His finger was poised above the button on his electric wheelchair. He was breathing heavily, wheezing, his eyes full of fear.

"I really thought I was taking them away," Tate said, his eyes streaming tears but his voice clear. "I really thought life was the thing that was going to hurt them, all those good kids. I thought that the world was the horror show."

Tate took a step toward the librarian and the man shrieked from his chair. "Please," the man begged. "Please, please don't-"

Tate stopped. He dropped to his knees on the new carpet covering the bloodstains that were surely soaked into the hard wood beneath. He was level with the man he'd crippled, looking into his terrified eyes. "It was me. It was me all along. I'm the horror show."

Then Tate lowered his head and began to cry. He faded out from the school library, leaving the librarian sobbing with fear, alone, sitting in his wheelchair just feet from where he had lain bleeding some twenty years ago.


	8. must be the smoke from my lungs

Violet felt a hand soft on her forearm. She didn't want to open her eyes. She didn't want to ruin the feeling of the grass underneath her, the sound of the breeze rustling through the trees. She didn't want to see Tate's tortured face and remember the awful and wonderful things they'd done.

"Hey, sleepyhead," she heard, and she opened her eyes.

Travis smiled at her, his handsome face backlit by the sunlight. "Sleeping in on the one day a year we can get out of this place!"

Slowly, Violet lifted herself up on her elbows. She felt sore, bruised. It was no wonder ghosts could bruise in this place. Travis's hand was warm on her skin.

"We need cigarettes," he continued. "like a _lot_ of cigarettes."

"What time is it?" she asked, yawning.

"Still early, but time's wasting. Come on, get up." He held out his hands and she took them in hers. She stumbled a little and Travis took that opportunity to draw her into his arms. Her dress was stretched across her collarbone and he kissed her bare shoulder.

Violet felt strangely touched by this gesture, and her eyes welled with tears at Travis's innocence, his kindness.

Travis brushed a thumb across her cheek. "Hey, don't be sad, chickadee. I have a surprise for you."

Violet felt a flutter of something in her chest. It was something she hadn't felt in a very, very long time. The idea that something good, without malice, without anger, could exist here in this hellish place...it made her feel something a little like hope.

Travis took her hand and led her into the kitchen. Her dad was at the counter, sipping coffee. Her mother was cradling the baby, as always. Seven years and that kid still didn't have a name.

Both of them looked up and smiled at her. Her dad's smile looked a little uneasy, but Vivien's was bright as always. Violet thought Vivien was a hundred times happier in death than she ever had been in life. At least someone in this house was.

Violet went over and kissed her father on the cheek. She knew he worried about her. He had been a psychiatrist, after all, and he sensed her depression.

"How are you doing, kiddo?" he asked her, putting an arm loosely around her shoulders.

Violet shrugged, not wanting to speak because she didn't want to lie to him. She forced a smile. "Happy Halloween."

Everyone reciprocated, almost cheering. Halloween was like Christmas around the Murder House. Everyone was in a better mood. Well...except maybe Tate. Violet had heard rumblings among the residents that he hadn't been out since their first Halloween together. The bunch of ghosts were like teenage girls, gossiping and whispering about each other.

Violet had been out every Halloween with her family, and it had been a nice reprieve. It wasn't the most fun living in a house where you'd first fallen in love and subsequently lost your virginity to a boy who'd ended up being a mass murderer and general psychopath. Not to mention the fact that he still lived in the same house, and your stupid heart still felt all the things for him that it always had, and sometimes you could hear him crying down in the basement if you let yourself listen.

Violet closed her eyes and banished those thoughts. After last night, she deserved a reprieve.

Vivien switched the baby to one arm and came close to Ben's elbow. "Travis is taking Violet out today," she said, and Ben's eyes shot to hers as if this was the first he'd heard of it.

Ben looked at Violet. "That okay with you?"

"Sure, dad."

Ben was staring daggers at Travis, so Travis gave him a probably not-so-reassuring grin and began leading Violet out of the room.

Violet could hear her father's harsh whispering. She trailed behind Travis a bit, listening.

"Isn't he a little old for her?" he hissed.

"Ben, they're DEAD! Neither of them are getting any older." Vivien said, exasperated.

Violet couldn't help but crack a genuine smile. After last night, after the heartache and horror of she and Tate, she hadn't thought it possible to smile again. Death was nothing if not surprising.

She hurried to catch up with Travis, who was all but dragging her outside on to the lawn. They went through the gate and down the street.

It seemed like they had been walking forever when Violet finally asked where they were going.

"We're here," Travis said, and Violet looked up at Westside High School.

A strange combination of sorrow and nostalgia shot through her. "The high school? Travis, what-"

"They're doing an all day Tim Burton marathon. It's going to be on a big projector in the auditorium. I heard some kids talking about it when they were egging the house last week. I don't know, I thought maybe you might want to be around people your own age - it's open to the public." Travis was looking at her for approval.

Violet smiled at him. It was a sweet gesture, and although her idea of a good time wasn't exactly sitting in an auditorium full of sweaty, loud teenagers, Travis's heart was in the right place. Also, it really might be nice to be around the living for a change. "It's great! I love Tim Burton."

She kissed his cheek and he smiled at her. "I'm glad," he said. "you're a cool chick and you deserve some fun every now and again."

As she and Travis neared the front doors, Violet was still smiling, and for once, she didn't think about Tate. At least, not until she saw a striped sweater and curly blond hair walk by a window.

Violet had no doubt that he hadn't come for the marathon. After all the things that had happened the night before, Violet had no doubt that Tate was here for his own sort of reprieve.

A reenactment, of sorts.

Violet tore away from Travis and bolted toward the school doors.

"Hey, wait! Where are you going? The auditorium-"

Travis's voice faded away as she ran into the school, breaking past a straggle of early bird teenagers going to study hall, replaced by the slapping of her feet on the linoleum.

She headed straight for the library. The doors were propped open and she went through them, breathing hard from her run. She saw the librarian in his electric chair. She felt a rush of relief when she saw he was alive. She took another step forward and then she saw Tate, on his knees. She tried to call out to him but her throat was dry and only a whisper of his name came out.

"It was me all along. I'm the horror show."

Tate's words came floating to her faintly, as if she were hearing them from a mile away. She'd jumped to conclusions and assumed that Tate would be angry, darkened by what had happened. She shouldn't be surprised. She'd rarely seen him angry. Tate was possibly the most lost of all of them, the most broken by what he'd done after death, and although he'd known he was dead, he hadn't been able to remember what he'd done in life. He hadn't been able to remember what he had become.

After Violet had told Tate to go away she had thought that maybe he could find some peace in not remembering. Maybe he could forget her the way he had forgotten killing those kids in 1994.

After almost twenty years, Tate was finally accepting what he had done. Tate faded out of the room, and Violet felt a strong urge to go to him, to comfort him. But how could she? She couldn't tell him that it would be all right. She couldn't tell him that it hadn't been his fault. She couldn't even tell him that she loved him, as true as that was, because it would only be another injury. Because it didn't matter.

Violet's heart ached for him, for herself. Tate had only ever wanted to be accepted, to be loved. By his mother, by Violet, by the world. Violet had only ever wanted Tate. Because he understood her. Because he was like her. Because their darkness had matched, had merged. Because he had looked at her as if she were the last person on earth.

Neither of them could ever have what they wanted.

The world was a filthy place.


	9. all apologies

Tate emerged from the bleachers in the auditorium after about half an hour. He'd had time to compose himself. He knew he should have gone back to the house but he couldn't bear it. He couldn't bear Hayden attempting in her hesitant way to comfort him; he couldn't bear Violet waking, couldn't bear to see the bruises he'd left on her.

Most of all, he couldn't bear to be alone down in the basement, all the whispers in his head...Steph, Kyle, Chloe, Patrick, Chad, Phil, Mrs. Morris. Vivien. So many others. So many other souls he'd damned with his twisted acts. And all of it for what? Nora had her baby for all of twenty four hours before she tired of it. She had tired of Tate, too, ignoring his sobs in the basement after Violet had wished him away. Violet had been seeking out Patrick in the basement for who knows what hellish acts because of what Tate had done. Because he had broken her.

Those kids he'd killed weren't in a better place. They weren't anywhere clean and kind. They were roaming the earth every Halloween, looking for him. Looking for retribution. Maybe they'd find it, today. He wouldn't hide. He wouldn't ever hide again. He deserved everything they could give him.

Tate mingled amongst the kids fairly easily. The hairstyles hadn't changed much. His clothes were a bit outdated, but a lot of the drama and art kids still wore the grunge look and so he didn't stand out. It was sort of nice to fit in. It was sort of nice to be around so many beating hearts, so much life. It had been so long since anyone alive had stepped inside Murder House.

He sat down on a less populated bottom bleacher. They were showing some kind of film, and Tate couldn't help but feel a bit excited in spite of the day's events. He hadn't had access to much other than what Constance brought him or Violet introduced him to at the house. He sat down next to a dark haired girl wearing too much makeup.

She smiled at him, and Tate forced a smile back. He wondered briefly if this was what high school had been like for normal people. He wondered if he would have been normal if he had been raised in a different house, without being terrified by Thaddeus or comforted by Nora. He wondered what his life had been like if he hadn't been doomed to die by virtue of just living there. His mother had been one of the only inhabitants to remain unscathed.

Tate's attention was drawn to the doors as a flock of teenagers came flooding in. The lights were dimming in the auditorium but years of living in the basement had sharpened his night vision considerably. He recognized Violet immediately, arm in arm with Travis. She looked worried, upset. Of course she did, after what had happened the night before. After what Tate had done.

Then Travis leaned down, whispered in her ear, and light flooded across Violet's face. She began to laugh, and Tate thought it was the most wonderful and most awful thing he had seen in years. It'd been so long since he'd seen her laugh.

Her happiness speared a hole in his gut. His heart filled to bursting with sorrow and love and hope for her. It was amazing, when you were dead, how much you could take. It was amazing how you continued on when everything was breaking inside of you. He took in a couple of deep, useless breaths and was happy the lights were dim, so no one could see the tears streaming down his face.

"That could have been you," he heard a girl whisper next to his ear, so close that he could feel her breath.

Tate whipped around to look, and there she was. The first girl he'd ever kissed. The first girl he'd ever thought of as beautiful. Chloe Stapleton was sitting on the bleacher above him, wearing her cheerleader uniform, the dried blood from her big heart staining her top. Tate wanted to scream. He wanted to take it all back. If he could have turned back time, Tate would have removed that bullet from Chloe's chest and put it in his head before he'd gone to school that day. He would have given back all the lives he took.

He wanted to tell her this. He wanted to beg her forgiveness. He couldn't do either of those things. He had no right. "I'm sorry I killed you," he said, and God, it was so weak. It was so little to give her, after he'd taken her life and then not even remembered when she'd confronted him. He didn't want to look in her eyes, but he couldn't keep looking through the hole in her chest.

She was still beautiful, in a sad way. In a way that said she'd never grow laugh lines or completely fill out her bra. She looked at him almost exactly as she had on the day that he'd taken all of that away from her. She looked so painfully sad. She didn't look afraid, though.

"I'm not afraid of you anymore," she said, as if she could read his thoughts. "I'm not even angry. You know what you've done. You're paying for it every day. I can see that. It's not even really so bad, being dead. It sucks being stuck at high school, for sure, but I get to see kids learning and getting past the bullying and bullshit of high school. Sometimes I see people fall in love. Sometimes I see kids like you, Tate."

Tate couldn't tear his eyes away from hers.

"I like you, you know. I was popular and so I was a little ashamed of it, but I thought you were smart and funny and...handsome. I remembered that you kissed me when we were kids and I thought you were an angel to Addie. When you flipped over that table I couldn't believe it was you. I couldn't understand why someone as good as you could do such a horrible thing. After all these years stuck in these halls, I think maybe I know."

She put a hand on his shoulder, and Tate began to weep. "There's something wrong with me. Something wrong _in_ me."

"Yes," she said, not unkindly. "You were misunderstood and abused and you thought the world was a bad place. You were right. It is a bad place. It's cruel and cold and you never get out of it alive, no matter what you do, no matter how good you are. But it's a good place, too, Tate. There's light and love and happiness. I see it every day. I think maybe you know that now, too. I think maybe she taught you that."

Violet had taught him everything about good about life. She was the only thing that had ever made him want to change. He hadn't even realized he needed to until he fell in love with her. Tate wanted to tell Chloe this, too, but the words clogged his throat. "I'm sorry," he said again. "I wish I could take it back."

"I know," Chloe said, and then she was sitting next to him. She moved her hand to his face. He turned to her, expecting her to punch him, spit in his face. Unbelievably, she placed her lips softly on his and kissed him, once.

"I forgive you, Tate. There's no room in this world for hatred and revenge. There's only time, now, and I only want to spend it thinking of happy things. I want to spend it watching kids like me find their way. I want to spend it helping those kids like you."

"I deserve to pay for what I've done," Tate said, quoting Violet, and Chloe shook her head.

"You are paying, Tate. You could have been happy here. You could have found a girl like Violet, fell in love. You could have been laughing and holding her hand. Instead you're here, watching her be happy with someone else. You're here being haunted by a girl you murdered. You're stuck in that house where your mother broke you down. You'll pay forever. That doesn't make me happy, but maybe it's right. Maybe it's just."

"What if I can never be a good person?" Tate asked, hoping for answers, hoping for redemption.

Chloe could give neither. She shook her head. "I don't know if you can, Tate. All I know is that you weren't a bad person when I knew you. You'd smile at your sister even when everything was falling down around you and protect her from anything you could. When you were eight years old your lips were soft and warm and sweet. I forgive you, Tate, but that doesn't matter. If you never forgive yourself, nothing can ever change."

Then she was gone. Tate still felt her hand on his face, her lips on his. He thought maybe he always would, that she would cling to him like smoke.

The first girl he'd ever kissed. The girl he'd murdered in cold blood. The first person to ever forgive him.


	10. i'm not gonna crack part one

Tate contemplated leaving the auditorium, fading back to the basement. He contemplated watching those stone walls appear around him like a prison. It would be best. Being back there, wallowing in his remorse, rocking back and forth on the cold cement floor.

In the end, he watched Violet. In the end, he would always choose to be where ever she was.

Watching her was more painful than being in the basement would be. She was sitting on the floor, several rows below his spot on the bleachers. From his vantage point he could see her fairly well, could make out her profile. She was watching the screen intently, and he could tell from the set of her jaw that she wasn't paying much attention. She had something else on her mind. Tate remembered shoving her to the ground, remembered his hand crushing her throat.

He squeezed his eyes shut. He tainted everything good and innocent with his darkness. He'd made Violet a shadow.

When he opened them, Violet had a faint smile on her face. Travis was nuzzling her neck, whispered something in her ear, and she laughed. The sound speared through him, and Tate hated himself for the coil of jealousy that uncurled in his stomach. The fact that Travis could make her smile after what Tate had done to her gave Tate an awful kind of hope for her. She could be a light, again, but not for Tate. Not ever again.

Toward the end of _Edward Scissorhands_ , he saw Travis stand and extend his hand to Violet. Travis led her out of the double doors.

Tate told himself to stay, to finish the movie. He told himself not to follow her.

He found himself lurking behind them in the hallway. He didn't even remember getting there. As much as he tried, he couldn't stop his feet from padding quietly behind them.

They weren't listening. They were holding hands, still, Violet's small pale hand devoured by Travis's. Travis turned to look behind them. The hallway was empty.

Tate stood stock still, willing his own invisibility. He suddenly felt overwhelmingly pathetic. Following her like a lost puppy. Waiting for her to change her mind, to forgive him. After everything. After her mother. After the bruises that still stained her pale throat.

He almost convinced himself to turn around, to go back to the auditorium or to fade back to Murder House. Then Travis moved suddenly, slamming Violet against the row of lockers with his body.

Tate's breath caught in his throat and his first instinct was to protect her.

Then Travis's hands were on Violet's hips and she helped him lift her, wrapped her legs around his narrow waist.

Tate tore his eyes away, his heart pounding and aching in his chest. A dark, bitter piece of Tate wanted to snap Travis's neck and take his place between Violet's thighs, hoping he could move fast enough so she wouldn't notice, hoping she'd keep her eyes closed so that she could still be smiling. He would place his hands over her eyes and kiss that sweet curve of her mouth over and over.

Of course, that would only be another lie.

Tate's eyes went back to them again, reluctantly, and Violet was still smiling, but tears tracked down her face. The ache in Tate's heart was sharper, deeper now. Her tears cut through him like tiny knives. All those small injuries, one after the other.

Travis must have felt the wetness of her tears because he pulled back, traced a thumb over the tracks on her face. "Don't be sad, chickadee," he said softly, and Violet looked up at him with such gratitude in her eyes.

Tate couldn't bear to watch anymore, this moment between them, because it suddenly felt heartbreakingly wrong, because it should be private, that moment. That moment of falling.

He rushed into the men's bathroom, letting go a painful breath that he felt as if he'd been holding for days. His stomach overturned with a lurch and he vomited into the sink. It was black and viscous, like his dead, useless heart.


	11. i'm not gonna crack part two

Watching _Edward Scissorhands_ , Violet couldn't help but be reminded of Tate. Johnny Depp's dark, tortured eyes. This misguided boy with the brutal hands, who touched the girl so tenderly.

Travis seemed to sense it, and he scooted a bit closer to her, placed his hand high up on her thigh. He nuzzled into her neck and his soft hair brushed her throat. She felt a spear of desire low in her belly.

Over the years since they had become friends with benefits, Travis had come to understand that Violet wasn't always herself. He always knew when she was feeling low. He always knew when the darkness was rushing up within her and he shone his light on it, scared it away. He knew when to use his slow, sexy smile or, when it was warranted, his long lean body. Both were equally effective.

"Want to get out of here? It's been a long time since I've been in a high school. We could explore."

She smiled at him, let him pull her up and take her out of the auditorium. She could sense the teenagers watching them, the girls especially. Wondering how a girl like her was holding the hand and the attention of such a handsome, older man.

High school had always been hard. She'd always been a loner, not quite fitting in with the popular kids or the goth crowd. She'd been somewhere in between. Now, she felt the girls' jealous eyes on her, and felt a low sort of pride.

Travis led her out into the hallway, not looking at her, and surprised her by grabbing her arm, turning her, slamming his hips into hers up against the lockers. She gasped in a breath and locked her hands around his neck, lifting herself up, rocking her pelvis toward him and her legs up around his waist. She smelled his breath on hers, sweet from the pumpkin juice punch they'd had at the refreshment table. She could focus on Travis's hands on her hips, the long, hard, perfectly curved length of him surging up against her, the heat of him. She felt herself smiling. She wasn't quite herself with Travis. She was something a bit sexier, a bit older, and it made her feel like she was pulling herself out of the grave she'd dug herself after she'd wished Tate away. It made her feel more like 25 than 16, and best of all, it made her forget for a few moments.

She felt Travis's lips on the bruises on her throat, soft and fluttering, and she remembered Tate kissing her there. Sudden tears burned behind her eyes and slipped beneath her lids because the kisses were so similar and so different. Tate's had been a sick sort of apology.

Travis had never asked her about her bruises. He'd never batted an eye when she'd come to him the day after a session with Patrick, covered in bruises nearly from head to toe. He'd done the same as now, kissed them, almost with reverence, and his sweetness, his goodness, made her ache.

She felt his hand on her face, his thumb brushing the tears away again.

"Don't be sad, chickadee," he said, for the second time that day, and she looked up at him, grateful to him, for him. Without Travis, Violet might have lost her mind, might have succumbed completely to the darkness.

For an instant, she was so glad he was here, so happy he had taken her away from that house of doom and suffering, that her heart seemed to swell in her chest.

Then she heard a door slamming shut with a bang that sounded all too much like a gunshot, and startled, she looked down the hallway. There was no one there.

Travis drew her face back to his and kissed her lips, softly. "I've got another surprise for you," he said, and Violet forgot about the sound of the door slamming, surrendered to this brief happiness she had been granted.


	12. i don't care if i'm old

Travis Wanderly knew all about darkness. He'd lived for years with a woman who was as dangerous as she was beautiful. She'd been a mother to a woman who was smart and funny and he'd loved her like a sister, in spite of Constance's bitter jealousy.

He'd grieved for Adelaide, in his way, but because Travis was only attracted to the darkness, not part of it, he could move on, almost as if nothing had happened.

He accepted his own death much in the same way. He was even a bit happier, because now his face was in the papers - on the television. Not just the gory death pictures, either, but his headshots. People all over the world grieved for him.

He was glad that Constance had grieved, too. He'd loved Constance in spite of her sharp tongue, her darkness, her murderous rage. Some part of him loved her still, even though she'd used and abandoned him.

When Violet had invited him into her room, between her thighs, all blushing teenage seductress, he'd been both intrigued and wary. He knew her past with Constance's son. He'd seen the scars on her arms, heard her crying in her room. He knew about the darkness in her. There was darkness everywhere, in this house, this graveyard.

He didn't let it touch him. He divided his time between Violet and Larry's girls because they were the closest to good. They were the closest to sane. At first, he'd been interested to teach her things, about her own body, about his. She'd had her fun exploring him, and when the darkness tried to take her, he'd intervened. He'd had years of practice with Constance. Over the past few years, he'd grown accustomed to helping Violet wish away her darkness.

Today, he'd wanted to give her something good. Again, his experience with Constance had helped him with Violet. Constance had wanted nothing more than to be young, and Travis knew more than anyone how good being young and beautiful felt. As young as Violet had been when she died, she had never truly gotten to experience youth. The house had taken that away from her. He'd taken her to the high school thinking it would be good for her to be around live teenagers, but it had backfired.

Travis was not one to be discouraged. He was changing his approach.

"Where are we going?" Violet asked as they went back down the street again.

It had gotten dark outside during the trip from the high school to where they were going. The sun was just going down and there was a cool breeze out on the street.

"I know a place," Travis said, "and I think you'll like it."

They came up to a small, underground bar. The music beat out onto the street.

"It's kind of a hipster place," Travis said, watching her face, hesitant, looking for her approval, "but I thought we could dance."

Violet's face lit up a bit as she felt the techno beat underneath her ballet flats. She threw her arms around his neck and placed a wet kiss on his mouth. "It's perfect," she said, her eyes bright with excitement.

Travis felt like a god when she looked at him like that. He thought that maybe he put up with so much darkness just for that beam of light in her eyes when he did something that pleased her. She could be such a delight, his chickadee.

Violet was concerned about how they would get in. Travis laughed at her, but Violet was blushing bright red with embarrassment as they approached the door. She totally didn't look twenty one. She barely looked sixteen.

"We're ghosts...we can do whatever we want," Travis said in a low, spooky tone, trying to make her laugh.

She didn't. She hadn't changed out of her clothes from last night and she was extremely aware that the back of her dress was stained with grass and that she had neglected to put on any underwear. God knows what had happened to the pair that Tate had torn off of her the night before. She pushed that thought along with the thought of Tate out of her head and focused on the problem at hand.

Violet found herself more afraid in death than she ever had been in life.

She didn't show it, though, she lifted her chin up and approached the bouncer hand in hand with Travis. She needn't worry about it, though, because Travis simply slipped past him.

"Invisibility, remember?" He whispered as they glided by the bouncer. The bouncer looked around as if he'd heard the whisper, and Travis's answering laugh was throaty and sexy.

Inside the club it was all strobe lights and warm bodies and she felt the rhythmic beating of the music inside her head.

"Let's do a shot!" She yelled at him, and Travis simply plucked two shots of something off a table where two men were sitting, watching the dance floor. They never even looked around.

He handed it to her and she shot it back like water, feeling fearless once again. It burned in her throat and down to her chest, but the fire was welcome.

Travis's hand on the small of her back led her to a table and Travis let one eye drop in a slow wink at a nearby waitress, who was wearing a barely-there kitty costume. She was at their table immediately, leaning down, her cleavage nearly resting on Travis's shoulder as she asked for his order. He whispered something Violet couldn't understand over the music and the waitress looked at Violet with a discriminating eye.

Instead of sitting in the chair next to him, Violet plopped down in Travis's lap and eyed the waitress right back.

Violet felt his laugh as a breath on the nape of her neck and she shivered. She turned around to kiss him, and when she felt his hand slip up her dress she laughed and moved it away, feeling sexy and powerful.

The waitress was back in a flash with two shots and two drinks. She toasted Travis with the shot and kept his gaze while she took it without grimacing. His eyes were bright blue and lusty in the strobe lights.

The alcohol already making her head feel fizzy, she stands up and grabs his hands. She pulls him up to meet her, and he instantly pulls her to him, pressing his body flush against hers. She locks her hands around his neck and pulls his head down to hers. They make out in the bar like a couple of kids for a moment. Violet supposes that is, actually, what they are. Or what they would have been. Travis couldn't have been more than twenty-five when he'd died.

Violet pulls away, her face feeling flushed. She tried to move her body away from his but Travis held her fast, his strong arms locking her in place.

"I want to dance with you," he whispered, and his hot breath and the sound traveled deliciously up the curve of her neck and into the shell of her ear.

They moved out onto the dance floor and Travis moved his hands from her waist down to the fullest part of her hips. He turned her around and they moved slower than the beat. He moved his hands further still, down to the hem of her dress, and Violet felt the air on her bare ass. She spaced her legs apart instinctively, arching back against him to feel his lips sucking gently on her throat. She feels the roughness of his designer denim jeans against her wet core and then, quick as a zipper lowered, she can only feel him, long and perfectly curved against her. She lifts up on her tip toes as he cups her ass, and envelops him in her wet heat.

He moans throatily against her neck and new heat blooms in her stomach. She closes her eyes and faintly, dimly, she hears a loud crash and a few gasps, as if someone has dropped a tray of drinks.

Violet didn't care. For the first time in years, she felt no sorrow, no pain. She felt nothing but the music and the heat of Travis's body against her, inside her.

She felt loose and young and...free.


	13. i'll keep fighting jealousy

Of course, Tate had followed them to the bar. He was completely unable to control himself.

Soon after seeing them in the hall, the buzzing had started again, in his head and under his skin. He felt manic, sweating, his eyes burning as if he'd been up doing lines for days.

He slipped in the bar only steps behind them, slipping past that bouncer without a second glance. He lost track of them for a moment in the bodies packed inside the building and a waitress walked by with a full tray of shots. He grabbed a couple and shot them back, hoping to quiet the beehive inside his head.

Near the bar, just as he swallowed, he saw Violet doing the same, tossing back a shot fearlessly.

Her face was so bright. Brighter than all the strobe lights and shitty techno music. He had never seen such excitement on her face.

He followed them around to a table near the dance floor. He didn't bother with invisibility. He wasn't sure he could maintain it, anyway, with the way he felt. He asked himself again why he was doing this. He'd stopped watching Violet because he'd seen her with Travis and the rage and bitterness and hurt had been altogether too much to bear.

Now, he was purposely following them. Watching them. Punishing himself.

He snatched another shot off the bar. This time, the guy sitting on the barstool, who was dressed in a ridiculous fucking Skeletor costume, noticed and protested. "Hey!"

Tate turned to glare at him, and the guy shut his mouth and looked down at the bar. Clearly, there was something in Tate's face that was a bit frightening.

When Tate looked back to Violet, she was sitting on Travis's lap, grinning in a way that made Tate want to kiss the upturned corners of her mouth because she was so beautiful and slit his own throat because it was Travis that was making her happy.

Tate filched a fourth shot off a passing watiress's tray and this one didn't even burn his throat. The alcohol wasn't helping, though. It reminded him of the one time he'd smoked meth with his dealer. He hadn't liked the way it made him feel. It had made him feel wide open, his mind racing, his skin too sensitve, the very air around him seeming to bruise.

He was tweaking like a goddamn beginner and he hadn't had anything stronger than whiskey in going on twenty five years. Violet was stronger than cocaine and meth and speed all rolled together. He was withdrawing hard and there was nothing he could do about it.

He could just stand by and watch as Travis did line after line after line.

Travis. The same handsome jerk fucking his mother _and_ the love of his life.

Wasn't death _grand_?

He turned back to Travis and Violet and she was turned slightly, pivoted toward him, her hip jutting out se xily. Travis moved his hand down her hip and under the hem of Violet's dress and Tate had a delicious vision of breaking those fingers one by one.

Instead, he just stood in the middle of the bar, watching as a waitress passed him and gave Travis and Violet their drinks. He watched them toast each other and leave their drinks on the table. Then they were just standing there, making out, Violet's little hand clenched in Travis's long hair, and Tate snuck over without even attempting to be invisible and steals both their drinks, throwing them back in two swallows a piece. He hoped Travis noticed him there. He hoped Travis started a fight. Tate would eviscerate him with his bare hands right there in the bar, stand covered in his blood.

Evidently the alcohol in his system had overrode any possible logical thought.

Both of them are too caught up in each other to even look down at their empty drinks. They moved out onto the dance floor and Tate was paralyzed by the horrible way they fit together, their bodies moving as one, slower than the music but with their own rhythm and speed.

Perhaps Violet and Travis had been practicing more than he realized. A hot coil of jealousy unfurled in his stomach as he imagined them fucking for days in Violet's room, on her bed, on the floor. He imagined them laughing and talking and Violet's naked pale body with Travis's hands all over her.

As if in a nightmare, Tate's feet stayed glued to the floor as he watched Travis push Violet's dress up over her hips, exposing pale curves that Tate could see even in the flashing, epileptic lights. Tate had a perfect profile view of them. He watched Violet arch gracefully toward Travis, saw the curves of her body become flush against Travis's lean muscle. Violet looked wanton, older and more beautiful than Tate had ever seen her look.

Violet's mouth opened in pleasure and Tate realized Travis was fucking her. Right there on the dance floor. Rage enveloped him like black fog and as a waitress passed by, Tate grabbed a large tray full of drinks out of her hands and threw it forcibly across the room. It crashed to the floor, and the sound of shattering glass filled his ears. He felt his feet unglue from the floor and he stalked toward them, all thought erased.

As he neared them he could make out Violet's face more clearly and she had this soft, sexy smile on her face, as if she wouldn't want to be anywhere else in the world. Mid-stride, the sound faded out of the room and he appeared outside on the street, breathing hard, the air feeling cold on his flushed cheeks.


	14. trading off and taking turns

The thing about true love is that it isn't always true.

At least, not for both parties. Hayden had spent most of her Halloween stalking Ben and Vivien while they trysted in the park with their new baby. Part of her wanted to think that Ben wasn't happy, that there was something off around his eyes, but that was wishful thinking.

Ben had his family, and he'd always been a family man. Even when he was buried between her thighs, he'd probably been thinking about getting home to Vivien and Violet.

As the sun went down, Hayden trudged back to the Murder House. She stopped by a liquor store and stole enough to restock the liquor cabinet. She flirted with the cashier to get him to put it in a bag and everything.

There was nothing else to do in that house, except maybe fuck, and even that got old after a time. Since Travis and Violet had taken up, the only available interested dick in the house belonged to Hugo, anyway.

Tate was being weird today...well...weirder than usual, so she guessed she'd be drinking alone. He was probably out stalking Travis and Violet - that was one thing they had in common.

She entered the house through the basement. Hardly anyone would be home. Everyone was taking all the time they could outside the house. It was a bit depressing that Hayden had nothing to do outside the house. Everything she wanted and couldn't have was right here in Murder House. Another thing she and Tate had in common, she guessed.

She heard a crash from upstairs and a muffled curse. Someone was home, after all. She debated whether to go upstairs and socialize. Since her alternative was a bottle of vodka and a dark, dank basement, she decided the former. Even talking with mostly psychotic dead people was better than drinking alone.

She hoisted the large bag up higher on her shoulder and went up the basement stairs. When she reached the top of the stairs, she almost dropped the whole two hundred dollars worth of liquor in her arms.

Tate had somehow managed to fall into the glass coffee table. There was blood and shards of glass everywhere.

Hayden placed the bag down on the couch and rushed to him. She gingerly picked up his right arm, which was sliced almost to the bone.

"I don't think I'll die," he mumbled thickly, "again."

"Jesus, kid, did you take a bath in whiskey?" She noted that his skin was already knitting back together with some measure of relief. She knew that logically he'd just come back but even after all of these years being dead, this amount of blood was a bit shocking.

"Tried to. It didn't work. Well..." He turned his eyes up toward hers. "Maybe it is now."

"I see." Hayden said dryly. She helped him to the couch, hoisting him up under his armpits. She sat him next to the bag of liquor.

He looked inside like a kid looking for candy.

"Hey, hey, hey! You're _way_ ahead of me, so me first." She pulled out a bottle of orange flavored Ketel One - her favorite.

He frowned at her. "I don't get any?"

Hayden couldn't help but smile. Tate was such a kid, still, in spite of his handsome face. In spite of all the awful, adult things he'd done. "Looks to me like you've had enough. Did you go to a bar?"

"Sorta. And a liquor store."

"Hey! Me too! Obviously. Did you tag along on Travis and Violet's date?" She asked already knowing the answer was yes. Otherwise he'd probably not be this stinking drunk. God knew after following Ben and Vivien all day she could use a drink. She twisted off the cap and took a swig of the Ketel One.

"Yes." Tate said sullenly.

He looked so pitiful slumped drunkenly down on the couch that Hayden offered him her bottle. He took a grateful swig and gave it back to her. His hands were shaking a bit. Impulsively, Hayden took his chin in her hand and turned his face toward hers.

He looked like hell. Which shouldn't be all that surprising, since he'd pretty much looked like hell ever since Violet had wished him away, but it hurt Hayden's heart all the same. His hair was a mess of matted blond curls, as if he'd been tugging on them all day. His eyelids were puffy from crying, his eyes so black Hayden could barely see his pupils. He just looked...defeated.

"You've had a bad day," she said softly, "why don't I put you to bed?"

Tate nodded, rubbing his eyes with his fists like an exhausted child.

Hayden left her bottle on the unbroken glass end table. She helped him up and walked him toward the guest bedroom. His arm across her shoulders was like dead weight.

She got him up on the bed after some effort and leaned over him to put a pillow under her head. She began to get off the bed and Tate grabbed her hand.

She turned toward him and tears were streaming down his face, his eyes black and glittering.

"She's happy," he said, his voice gravelly from the tears and the alcohol, deeper than she'd ever heard it.

A spear of pain sharp as an arrow pierced Hayden's heart. Suddenly, she saw Ben's face in her head. She saw him smiling, laughing, his bright blue eyes wrinkling up at the corners.

"Ben's happy, too," she whispered, her words coming out thick and slow, as if she were the one who'd been drinking all night. "We're alone."

Tate sat up slightly and Hayden gasped in surprise as he grabbed onto her hips, pulled her toward him. Instinctively, she swung a leg over his waist, straddled him. Realizing what she was doing, she tried to pull away. Tate pulled her down on top of him, his face inches from hers. She could smell whiskey and sorrow on his breath.

"We're not alone," he whispered, and kissed her.

He didn't kiss like a child, and Hayden made a noise in her throat. She managed to pull away, not listening to her neglected body which was singing underneath his hands. "Tate, I can't-not tonight. Not like this. I can't be second string anymore - You'll be thinking about Violet-"

"I don't want to think about her anymore," he said, and thrust up beneath her, the hard length of him grinding into her, making her breath short.

"But Tate-"

Tate took his hands off her ass and cupped her face. His eyes were so black, so endless. "You're Hayden, and you're with me, and you're beautiful."

Tears stung her eyes. "We're not alone," she repeated slowly, her hands moving up under his shirt as if they had a mind of their own.

"No," he said, setting his jaw. "Not tonight." He kissed her again.

His stomach and chest were harder than she'd imagined, tighter. His skin was baby soft, though, and she couldn't stop herself from dropping a kiss on his collarbone as she helped him remove his shirt. A moan left his throat and he flipped her over rather steadily considering the amount of alcohol he'd had to have consumed in the last few hours.

Hayden's nails were scrabbling at his jeans as he kissed her again. In an instant she had him in her hand. Tate was becoming a sort of revelation. He was much bigger than she'd imagined, also. It would be difficult to go back to calling him "kid" after tonight.

Her thoughts stopped as her stroking tore a gravelly moan from him and when he struggled with unbuttoning her jeans she did it for him, slipping out of them almost bonelessly.

Tate looked down and then back up at her face, his black eyes glittering with lust now instead of tears.

Hayden bit her lip, smiling. This wasn't the first time she'd been glad she'd given up underwear after death.

Then before she could think, he'd slipped down her body and his mouth was on her, and the last thought she had before surrendering to all the screaming pleasure cells still somehow alive in her body was that she couldn't imagine how Violet had given this up, even after learning of all the awful things Tate had done.


	15. to prove i still smell her on you

Violet was only a little tipsy when she and Travis came in at daylight, so she was quiet coming inside, not wanting to wake her parents.

She'd burned most of the alcohol off dancing, but she still felt giddy. When Travis tried to lead her into her room, she shook her head vehemently.

"My parents are asleep - they'll hear us." She realized that she would have been a grown woman if she'd been alive, but your parents possibly hearing your sex noises was creepy at any age. She took his hand, led him toward the guest bedroom.

There was light spilling from beneath the door, so she opened it just halfway, in case someone else had gotten the same idea. God forbid her _parents_ had.

She stuck her head inside and the first thing she saw was a mop of golden curls, illuminated by the daylight streaming in the curtainless window. He was sitting up, smoking a cigarette, the sheet pooled around his waist and exposing his pale, broad shoulders.

At the sound of the door, three things happened.

First, Tate turned to look at the door. Secondly, Hayden popped up from the other side of him, her red hair mussed from sex or sleep or both.

Thirdly, Violet's heart stopped beating. She let go of the door frame and it opened wide by itself.

Travis peeped over her shoulder and quietly told her that he'd wait for her in her room before exiting the hallway. Hayden also promptly excused herself, grabbing the comforter that had at some point the previous night been thrown on the floor and wrapping it around herself. She slid past Violet without touching her, without meeting her eyes.

All of this seemed to happen so quickly, but Violet felt as if she'd been standing in that doorway for days. She couldn't move, couldn't blink. She still couldn't seem to catch her breath.

Tate was looking at her, his dark eyes half-lidded and sleepy. There was no guilt or remorse on his face, but then again, why should there be? He wasn't hers anymore. Pain speared through her at this thought, and she put her hand on the door frame for balance.

"You want a cigarette?" he asked, his voice a little hoarse, but steady. He held out the pack to her.

She took it gratefully, feeling like she always did around Tate lately. Detached from herself, looking in from the outside. It was the only way she could quiet her rapid, aching heart. He lit it for her.

"Did you have a good Halloween?" He asked, and there was something different in his voice, something almost angry.

"Yes," she said honestly. In spite of the way it had begun with finding Tate in the school library and been book ended with finding Tate with Hayden, her Halloween had been quite a success. "You?"

Tate shrugged, not looking at her. "I've had better."

Violet wanted to close her eyes and materialize in her room. She wanted to get away from this bullshit small talk. She wanted to get away from the wrongness of not being in his arms, of the wrongness of all the things they left unsaid. _I'm sorry. I love you. I forgive you._

All those simple phrases that meant everything and nothing. Because they were true and not true, for both of them. In the end, Violet stayed. She smoked her cigarette. She perched on the end of the bed, too far away from him, so she wouldn't be tempted to touch him. She hated herself for the words that came out of her mouth next, but she couldn't contain them. "So, you and Hayden, huh?"

The words were nonchalant but she felt stupid, petty. He wouldn't answer her. He'd change the subject or just keep smoking his cigarette and being so damned silent. Silence wasn't in his nature, but today, he was letting her do all the talking. And her stupid mouth just kept moving.

"I mean, it's good," she said haltingly. "she's changed."

Tate shook his head. "No one changes." He exhaled through his nose, smoke flaring his nostrils. "We're friends. Friends finding...comfort. Having fun. You know all about that." His voice had been shockingly even, before, quiet. At this last phrase his voice hardened, deepened.

"What is that supposed to mean?" Violet's tone was supposed to be accusatory but it came out weak and whining.

Tate rubbed a hand across his mouth. "I don't know, Violet. I don't know what anything means anymore." He turned his face to hers and his eyes were dark and shining, not with tears this time but with anger. Bitterness. "I don't know what it means that you're talking to me, now. Why would you do that? Why would you stay here and talk to me after what I did to you? After what I did with Hayden? Is this what you wanted?"

"What are you _talking_ about, Tate?" She stood up, every cell in her body tingling with pain and anger and frustration.

"You wanted me to hurt you? To prove to you that I'm a monster? I did it, Violet. I hurt you and part of me _enjoyed_ it," he said, his tone disgusted. "Part of me was glad of it, just so I could be near you. Just to hear you breathing under me. Now you come and talk to me after I've finally found some solace. After I've finally found some peace you come in here and you talk bullshit small talk to me like we're _friends?_ "

Tate sat up straighter on the bed, looking up at her angrily, expectantly.

Violet was suddenly reminded of their first and only time together, when she'd been sitting fully dressed on the bed. She remembered his face, so handsome and concerned, when she'd spoken about leaving. The memory hurt because it had been a lie. He'd been protecting her from the knowledge that she had died, lying to her about that and so many other things.

"I can't do this," Violet whispered, taking a step back, her heart pounding and pounding against her breastbone.

"You can't do this," Tate repeated. "I can't do this. We're stuck here in this house together and every day is a thousands days, Violet. Every inch I am away from you burns inside of me. I can't go on like this. I can't go on following you and watching you-"

"You're still _watching_ me?" She almost shrieked, anger finally finding its way into the myriad of emotions that had slammed her.

"Haunting you," he said, and Violet thought the look on his face, his inky, tortured eyes would break her heart.

The thing they don't tell you about hearts is that they don't break. They just crack through, strong, holding together shakily like a shattered windshield. "You promised you wouldn't," she said flatly.

"I break a lot of promises, Violet. So do you."

His words stung, but Violet couldn't deny them. Cutting herself, the depravity with Patrick - she'd promised Tate a long time ago never to cut herself again, and in promising, knew that he meant never to hurt herself again. Never to punish herself. She couldn't stop the bitter, hurtful words coming out of her mouth.

"So you just skulk around? Watching us? Watching his hands on me? Does it turn you on?"

"Stop it," Tate said, his voice husky, warning.

She wanted to stop. She couldn't stop. "Do you like to watch, Tate? Do you imagine I'm thinking of you when he makes me come?"

"Stop it!" Tate roared, tearing at his hair, his eyes turning blacker and blacker.

"I'm not," Violet spat. "I never think of you."

The lie burst out of her like venom.

She could hear Tate's heavy breathing. "This house has changed you," he said slowly, carefully.

"No one changes," she said.

They stilled there for a moment, the only sound in the room their heavy, angry breathing like the sound of the gulf widening between them.


	16. let me clip your dirty wings

Violet and Tate looked at each other across the room, each of them remembering the beginning here at what they thought was the end.

Violet was remembering seeing his face in the mirror, standing behind her. She'd been frightened and ashamed and oddly exhilarated. That knowing look on his face when he'd said she should lock the door. It had almost been as if he'd caught her masturbating. She'd felt heat all through her body when he'd shut the door, holding her eyes the whole time.

Tate remembered the visceral gut reaction he'd had to the blood staining Violet's white skin. It was as if the darkness was welling out of those wounds, leaving behind nothing but clean, pure innocence. He'd tested her with his words and she'd looked back at him, unflinching. Fearless. He'd shut the door and been alarmed at how flushed his cheeks felt, how fast his heart beat.

After they'd displayed their scars, those maps of pain on their wrists, there's been the moment they'd both realized something was happening to them, something they couldn't control. Violet had been spying on Tate's session with her father, peeking around the corner like a child. She'd heard his words to Ben and he'd met her eyes and both of them had felt that odd current of fate running between them like magnetism, like electricity.

Now, Violet stood mere feet away from him but it might as well been ten thousand miles away, on the other side of a canyon filled with darkness and fear and regret. Because they were here, together and apart. Forever.

She was here because of him. He was changed because of her.

"No one changes," Violet had said, repeating Tate's words. They hung in the air between them, enveloping them like a shroud.

"Why are you here?" Tate asked her, unable to take his eyes off her, unable to summon up the hate he so desperately needed to feel. Hate would be so preferable to this hole inside of him, this aching to be hers again, to beg and grovel at her feet until she let him back inside.

"What do you mean?" Violet didn't answer him because she couldn't answer him. She couldn't say _because I want you and I love you and everything about you hurts me_ even if it was the truth.

"You've clearly done some moving on, Violet. I saw you at the club. You're happy with Travis." Tate was shocked that those words came out without breaking.

"I am happy." _Sometimes_ , she wanted to add, but she clenched her teeth shut around the truth.

Tate swallowed hard. "I'm glad," he managed, and some part of him was. The good part, he supposed, the one that might have been good if he hadn't been Constance's son. If he hadn't grown up in this godforsaken house.

Looking down at him, into those terribly familiar and anguished black eyes, Violet couldn't hold back the truth any longer. "I'm sorry if that hurts you," she said, softly.

At her words, Tate looked away from her so she wouldn't see the tears welling in his eyes. "Everything about you hurts me, Violet. It isn't your fault."

Violet heard her own thoughts echoed in his words and sorrow welled in her heart. All of a sudden it was all too much and the control she'd had on her emotions began to break down. She sat on the edge of the bed again, not trusting her legs to keep holding her up.

"I'm very happy with him," Violet began, not knowing what she was going to say until the words came out of her mouth, "sometimes. I think he's good for me. He's good, inside, you know? One of the only ones of us who is...innocent. He's also funny and sexy and the things he can make me feel -"

"Violet-" Tate managed, her words slicing through him like razor blades.

"It should be right, you know? It should be what I need. And sometimes...lately...it is. It can be. But then I think of you." She looked at him, something a bit accusing in her eyes. "I remember how we were, before, and how you destroyed everything that was dear to me and also somehow _became_ everything that was dear to me. I see you suffering and I know you deserve it and more."

Tate nodded, not looking at her. He couldn't bear to look at her.

"But I see you suffering and it makes me suffer, Tate. Maybe because I know you were trying your best to do the right thing in your twisted way. Because I know you grew up in this awful place. Maybe because-" She stopped, there, didn't finish with _I love you_ because those words didn't mean what they used to. Those words only meant fresh pain and useless hope.

"Violet?"

Violet closed her eyes, tears slipping beneath her eyelids. "There's a part of me that's still angry and bitter. I can't help that. I think Travis is helping, but it might be a long time before...before we could be friends again. I guess what I'm trying to say is that I'm here because I do want you to find...solace." Violet saw Hayden slipping naked except for a comforter out of the room and pain bloomed through her. "If you find solace in Hayden, I'm happy for you. I hope you find some peace."

Tate was silent for a moment, and Violet lost what small amount of control she had and looked at him. His eyes were searching her face. Violet willed her face not to show how much she was hurting, how much she wanted him, how much she ached to just go back in time seven years and meet him in the bathroom again.

Tate set his jaw in a hard line and settled back on the bed. The hope in his eyes had faded, his eyes bleeding back to a dark, dark brown instead of that endless black.

"Thank you," he said.

Violet stood and put out her cigarette in the ashtray on the nightstand. She turned and went to the door. She turned around just as she got to the doorframe.

"Happy Halloween, Tate," she said, and for an instant, she couldn't move. He was watching her from the bed, his eyes fixated on hers.

That line of fate hummed and vibrated between them, ever calling them home, but they refused to go.


	17. angel's hair and baby's breath

Days and weeks and months blurred together for all those existing in the Murder House.

Tate found that if he spent the majority of his time either with a bottle of liquor or buried between Hayden's creamy thighs, the time blurred by even faster.

Tate had discovered what Violet had known for years - sex could be such a reprieve. A bloodletting more than cutting had ever been.

He and Hayden shared their pain, their loneliness, made something of it. They spent days in the guest bedroom, tracing each other's physical and emotional scars, finding solace in each other. They spent days and weeks forgetting. Sometimes they drank together. Sometimes they drank alone, and then found their way to each other, in the basement, at the gazebo. After a few drinks, Hayden was quite fond of copulating over her buried body.

Tate had come to memorize the curves of her body. He'd been exploring her, finding out how to touch her exactly the way she liked. He got lost for days in her landscape, thinking only of her moans, feeling the draw of his body to hers. His head didn't often enter into it. His heart never did.

He didn't ever imagine she was Violet. He wouldn't want to. Not only would it be painful for him and disrespectful to Hayden, it would be near impossible.

Violet and Hayden were completely different. Both beautiful, both strong, but the very feelings he had felt for Violet had made him hold back from her, protect her. He'd revered her, worshipped her. Even, to an extent, that night in the backyard.

Hayden preferred to be defiled. Hayden didn't mind bruises or being taken from behind, her hair pulled. In fact, she took a certain pride in the teeth marks Tate left on her thighs, her breasts. The darkness in Tate responded to this, salivated at the thought of it. He loved the way her hair felt silky wrapped around his fists, the way her flesh tasted between his teeth.

Somewhere amidst the rapid heartbeats and short breaths, the torn clothes and finger bruises, they found a kind of peace.

For days, Tate wouldn't think about Violet. He wouldn't think about the things he'd done, who he was, why he was here in this house forever. He wouldn't remember her words slashing at him, her scream _go away_ reverberating in his ears. He wouldn't imagine Travis's hands on her, wouldn't see her pale, naked body arching up underneath those hands.

Then he'd see her, smoking in the backyard, hear her laughter as she played with Beau in the attic, and it would all come crashing down on him at once.

One day he'd been going to the hall bathroom to take a shower after an hour long session with Hayden. The one thing about living in Murder House was that at least the realtor kept on the water and the lights. Constance had some type of deal going on with her, he guessed.

He'd seen the steam billowing out from under the door and had been completely powerless to stop himself from pressing his ear to the door. It was if he could feel Violet in there, sense her, feel that line of fate calling him to her.

Then he'd heard a throaty male chuckle and Violet's answering giggle. Depression blew through him like an icy breeze. Tate had thought he'd squashed that hope of forgiveness, that hope of happiness, long ago. It had blossomed up in him as he'd sensed Violet in the shower, and now that very idea made him feel unbelievably stupid.

What did he think? That he could open the door, get in the shower with her? That she'd _welcome_ him? When the last time he'd touched her he'd shoved her down into the dirt, torn off her underwear, forced himself back into her?

Disgust and despair settled over him and he went back into the liquor cabinet - steadily depleting since he and Hayden had taken up.

He'd woken up, who knew if it was hours or days later, facedown on the guest bedroom floor. Hayden had evidently given up on getting him to the bed and taken it for herself, because he could see one slim arm hanging off the bed.

He stood up with some difficulty, not even trying to remember what had caused this most recent breakdown. It surely had something to do with Violet, and if he let himself remember, their already dwindling liquor stores would be gone by morning.

Still waking up, Tate realized what had woken him.

Faintly, a baby was crying.

Without thinking, Tate exited the room, following the mewling noise. The sound led him to the living room, where Vivien and Ben's baby was lying on the ground, kicking weakly, his little face scrunched up and red.

Tate looked around, looking for Vivien or Ben, even Moira. No one was to be found. He went to the baby and kneeled next to him. Hesitantly, he picked him up.

The baby's cries faded as Tate attempted to cradle him against his chest. "Hey," Tate said softly, "how did you get in here?"

The baby looked up at Tate with muddy, newborn blue eyes, and it hit Tate like a sledgehammer.

This is where the baby had been born, and subsequently, taken his first and last breath. This is where the baby had died, right here on this spot.

Tate's hands suddenly felt as if they were covered with blood. His murderer's hands tightened around the baby, rocking him, soothing him. "I'm sorry," he whispered pointlessly, because this baby couldn't understand him. He was just a newborn, crying in this new and too bright world forever.

Those words didn't mean anything, anyway. They hadn't to Violet. They hadn't to Chloe. _I'm sorry_ was just something you said to quiet the voices in your own head. Something you said to lessen the pain in your own heart. _I'm sorry_ did nothing for the poor, innocent soul that Tate's dead seed had murdered in the womb. This poor baby who phased back to his birth place, his grave, without knowing why.

The baby had quietened, but still fussed, whining and struggling against Tate.

Without thinking, hardly knowing what he was doing, Tate began to sing. He heard the lyrics in his head in Constance's voice, remembering them from when he had been small and sick and she had been drunk and affectionate, her breath sweet with schnapps, her hands soft on his brow.

" _Sway to and fro in the twilight gray;_

_this is the ferry for Shadowtown;_

_it always sails at the end of day;_

_just as the darkness is closing down..."_

His words trailed off as he felt eyes watching him. He looked around the room, softly rocking the baby, who had begun to drowse. He looked around the room, feeling oddly ashamed. It was dark in the living room, and he couldn't see anyone around.

He heard a voice, soft, quiet. "That's a beautiful lullaby."

Tate froze at the sound of Vivien's voice. He didn't look at her. Couldn't look at her. "I'm sorry," he said, those useless, stupid words again, "I found him here, on the floor, and-"

He felt a soft touch on his elbow. "It's all right, Tate. He ends up here sometimes, when he wakes up in the night. It's comforting for him, somehow."

Tate knew that he should turn to her, give her the baby, but he was paralyzed.

"You're good with him," she continued, "he likes you."

"Vivien, I-"

Vivien cut him off. "I've thought about it a long time. Years, really. I don't think it was you who raped me, Tate."

"It was me," Tate said miserably, looking down at the baby sleeping in his arms. The baby he'd inadvertently killed.

"It wasn't all you, Tate. It was this place. The power in this place. I had an interesting conversation with Nora a few years ago. She told me that she knew you as a boy. She said that you were sweet, impressionable. She said you needed a better mother, and she tried, even though she knew she wasn't a very good one in life."

Tate saw his tears dripping down on the baby's onesie and he cradled him with one arm and wiped his face with his other arm. "It doesn't matter. I still hurt you. I still killed you."

"That's true. I don't think you wanted to, but you did. But...I'm here now. I'm here now forever with my husband and my daughter and my baby son." Vivien came around in front of him to take the baby.

Her face was soft and smiling, his tears blurring the lines on her face, making her look young. Making her look a little like Violet.

She cradled the baby to her and he never woke, still sleeping as he snuggled into her bosom. "You were still a child when you died, Tate. Just a year older than Violet. I can't see you as a monster anymore. Not after all this time. Not after this beautiful baby boy. You were once soft and sweet like him. Violet saw that in you. I think Ben did, too."

Tate couldn't look at her, cradling that baby. This woman who had given him Violet. This woman he had defiled and murdered. He stared at the floor, a sob hitching in his chest. "They saw the monster in me, too," he whispered, not even sure if she could hear him.

Then her hand was on his face. She drew his chin up to meet her eyes. "This house would turn us all into monsters if we let it," she said, her eyes shining. "I forgive you for being weak, Tate. I forgive you for giving in to the darkness. I hope you can find some peace."

She was repeating her daughter unconsciously, and Tate wanted to cry out that he didn't deserve her light, her grace, her forgiveness. Something in him was wrong and broken and he didn't deserve any of it. The goodness in him knew that, knew that he didn't deserve it.

The baby began crying softly again, and Vivien rocked him. "Will you teach me that song? It soothed him so."

Tate looked at her for a moment. Her blond hair seemed to glow in the darkness, her face bright and her smile warm.

He felt so grateful he wanted to drop to his knees and grovel at her feet. He wanted to tell her that he craved her goodness, her strength, her mother love.

In the end, he did none of those things.

Tate began to sing in a broken, reedy voice, and she joined in, her voice strong and sweet.

" _Rock slow, more slow in the dusky light;_

_silently lower the anchor down;_

_dear little passenger say good night;_

_we've reached the harbor of Shadowtown..."_


	18. i want some help

Somewhere around eighty percent of the time, Violet felt mostly at peace in the Murder House. She passed time idly enough. She spent time with her family, interacted with some of the more benevolent ghosts. She spent time laughing with Travis, tracing his lean muscle with her hands, her mouth.

Exploring her sexuality with Travis had become a regular and enjoyable pastime, and had completely replaced her dark trysts with Patrick. She hadn't gone to him since that night before Halloween.

The other twenty percent of the time, Violet thought she would completely lose her mind. During those dark times, Violet contemplated killing herself in a dozen different ways, if only to escape from her own thoughts for a while.

Twenty percent of the time, Violet thought of Tate. She'd hear the banging of the headboard against the wall in the guest bedroom, or his throaty, lusty, too-masculine chuckle at something Hayden must have said. Then her heart would seize up as if it would cease to beat altogether, and wouldn't that be a blissful alternative to the coldness that spread throughout her body, the black void in her chest when she thought of what she and Tate were, what they could have been?

OF course, it wouldn't stop beating. That was the curse of the Murder House, after all. You kept on breathing, kept on bleeding, forever.

The absolute worst days were when she saw him. She would always hide from him, make herself invisible if she saw him coming down the hallway or around the corner. She wasn't sure why she didn't make herself known to him. Maybe because she didn't want him to see her face, her visceral reaction to just seeing him in passing around the house.

Most of the time, he looked haggard and a little hungover. He was drinking a lot, judging from the empty liquor bottles in the trash. He looked the part of the tortured, anguished boy she'd fallen in love with, but something, some part of him, had changed. He had matured. It looked good on him, sexy even. His face seemed to have filled out a bit, the lines of his jaw and chin becoming harder. It was probably all the loud and deviant sex he was having with Hayden.

Violet had been going to the kitchen for a glass of water in the wee hours of the morning, and she'd heard Hayden shrieking laughter.

Violet had instinctively become unknown, peeking hesitantly around the hall corner.

Hayden and Tate were sitting Indian-style on the kitchen floor. They had clearly been drinking, a bottle of alcohol between them. Tate, ridiculously, had the Ace of Spades sticking face up on his forehead.

The scene was humorous enough, but Violet couldn't find it in her to even crack a smile.

Tate was facing her, grinning unselfconsciously at Hayden. His dark eyes had faded up to a warm brown, his dimples marking his normally hollow cheeks.

Violet felt all the blood in her body rush to her face as she remembered Tate smiling at her almost exactly like that when she'd told him he was the first boy to give her a flower. Her heart swelled with pain and loss and a bit guiltily, Violet realized that his happiness hurt more than his suffering ever could.

As she watched, pathetic and ashamed from the entrance to the hallway, Tate leaned over and kissed Hayden's laughing mouth.

Violet slipped back into the hallway, hiding that awful scene from her sight. She closed her eyes and rested her hot forehead on the cool sheetrock. Bitter jealousy buzzed throughout her. Illogically, she thought that it wasn't fair. She should be the one laughing and drinking with him. She should be the one making him happy.

Sorrow took over the anger in her as she realized that she never would. She never could. Because they were dead and doomed in this dark place that had spurred such deviant, murderous acts in a sensitive boy. This house that had killed them both and doomed them to watch the other grow farther and father away from the person they had known and loved.

After twenty odd years dead in this house, Tate was finally growing up. Violet supposed she was, too, and the more emotionally if not physically mature they became, the more their ill-fated teenage romance seemed painfully distant. At times like these, when Violet saw Tate for who he was becoming, she wondered if they had ever really been in love at all.

 _Yes,_ her heart answered for her, beating hard and stubbornly, in spite of the fact that she'd been dead for going on a decade, in spite of the fact that it was broken.

Before she did something she might regret, like breaking between Tate and Hayden and begging him to talk with her, she faded out to the gazebo and lit a cigarette.

She was only half way through when she heard footsteps behind her. She didn't bother to become invisible, knowing that the footsteps were too light to be Tate's.

"Can I bum one of those?" Hayden's voice said behind her.

Without speaking, Violet handed her a cigarette, light a match for her.

Hayden inhaled slowly and leaned against one of the gazebo's supports. "He's not coming out here, if you're worried."

"I wasn't." Violet hated the defensive tone of her voice.

Hayden raised an eyebrow at her, exhaling smoke out of her nose. "He's up in the attic with Beau. He heard him crying up there."

"He gets lonely," Violet said softly.

"Don't we all," Hayden said indifferently. "We haven't talked in a while."

"No," Violet said flatly, "we haven't."

"How's everything going with Travis?"

"How's everything going with Tate?" Violet spat back at her, and instantly regretted it. It wasn't Hayden's fault that Violet was petty and jealous.

"It's not love, you know." Hayden said, and Violet looked at her, shocked.

"I didn't-"

Hayden cut her off. "I know it's what you were wondering. We're just...existing. Surviving. It's a little easier when you have someone who understands."

"And you understand him?" Violet couldn't stop the bitter tone of her voice.

"We understand each other. We've both been hurt. Rejected."

"You're both murderers."

Hayden shrugged. "That's true enough. We're both trying to get past it. Trying to get over it."

"Get over what?"

"All of it! It's not easy to be young and dead and wracked with guilt, you know. Not to mention heartbroken."

"That's not easy for anyone," Violet said, her voice toning down a bit.

"Not in this house. He thinks you don't love him anymore."

Hayden's words stabbed at Violet. "He thinks _what?_ "

"He thinks you're in love with Travis. He thinks you're moving on, that you're done with him. He's just doing his best to be done with you, too." Hayden snorted. "Like that will ever happen."

"I'm not in love with Travis."

"I know that. I've told him that. But he says he's seen you. He says he's seen you happy. I know better."

"You don't know anything, Hayden. We're not friends anymore, if we ever were."

Hayden took a long drag off her cigarette. "Maybe not. But I'm a woman, too, Violet. I know what happy looks like, and sweetheart, you aren't it. You love him."

"That doesn't matter," Violet said, pushing down the tears that threatened to rise in her throat.

"It matters to him. It's all that matters to him, you know. It's all that ever has. He thinks he wants you to be happy, but he can't want that. Because if you're happy, it means you really don't love him anymore. It means maybe you never did, and he can't bear that. That's why he drinks all the time. That's why he comes to me."

Violet closed her eyes, not wanting to have this conversation but sickly wanting to know everything, wanting to know every word Tate had confided in Hayden. "Why do you go to him?"

"Several reasons. He's lonely and suffering and I want to help. He's good looking. For a seventeen year old, he's really, really good in bed." Hayden grinned at her. "But you knew that."

Violet wanted to smash her face in. "Stop it."

"See that look on your face? You don't want him happy, either. The very thought of it makes your blood boil."

Violet couldn't deny it although she wanted to, anger making blood rush to her cheeks.

"I go to him for the same reason he comes to me, Violet. The same reason you go to Travis. We want to forget. I want to forget the color of your father's eyes. I want to forget every wonderful thing he ever said to me. I want to forget that his real family is here with him forever, and he'll never want me."

Hayden's voice broke, and Violet felt a stab of pity for her. Violet knew what it was like to live in a house with someone that you couldn't shake, and it wasn't pleasant.

"I'm sorry," Violet said, and she meant it.

"I'm sorry for you, too, Violet. You and Tate and all the other misled souls in this place. I guess we're not meant to be happy. This house won't let us."

"So what do we do?"

"We go on existing. We go on wanting things we can never have. We go on following the people we love-"

"Haunting them," Violet whispered.

"Haunting them," Hayden repeated, and they stood out on the gazebo for a while, smoking and listening to the eerie hum of the cicadas.


	19. i crawl toward the cursed alley

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: Rape.

A year passed in the Murder House so quickly that it might have been a blink.

Tate and Hayden had found a sense of comfort and peace in each other and it became less and less about sex and more and more about friendship. They started drinking less and talking more and by the time another October rolled around, when they slept together, they were just sleeping. Neither of them found this lack of sexual activity upsetting. Their relationship had been just about as far from love as you could get.

Tate found that after his talk with Vivien, a few of the thousand cracks in his heart were healing. With some prodding from Vivien, Ben had finally offered to have a few sessions with Tate a month. The more of these sessions Tate attended, the more the void inside him lessened. His heart felt lighter than it had well...ever.

He spent his time reading to his brother in the attic or playing cards with Hayden. They hadn't played Scrabble together. Somehow, that still felt like a betrayal.

He and Violet had made a sort of truce. They hadn't spoken since she had found him with Hayden, but they'd pass each other in the rooms and hallways of the Murder House without incident. He didn't feel the need to hide from her anymore, and she evidently felt the same.

Tate's useless heart still seized up when he saw her face, and his skin still buzzed with electricity if they happened to brush past each other in the hallway, but he found it became easier and easier. The idea that it could get easier, that seeing her didn't make him burn and ache as much as it used to, caused a sort of sorrow in him.

There were still moments, though, moments that hurt more than any shallow pain he'd had before.

One such moment happened the morning of Halloween. Tate had been on his way to the guest bedroom where Hayden was still sleeping. His plan was to wake her up and see if she wanted to go out with him, to get Beau a present. Tate eventually wanted to work up to taking Beau out of the house on Halloween.

Violet came out of her bedroom, yawning, wearing pajamas with stars on them.

Tate could feel nothing but an awful, tearing longing for her. He wanted her more at that moment than he ever had before. Her blond hair loose and streaming down her back, her big brown eyes puffy from sleep, she had never been so beautiful.

Then Travis came out behind her, shirtless and barefoot. He said something to her and she smiled brilliantly after him as he padded down the hall toward the bathroom.

Tate had a strong urge to become unknown, partly because he didn't want her to see how she affected him, and partly because he wanted to follow her and watch her and ache for her all day, but he forced himself to remain and continued toward the guest bedroom, hoping that she wouldn't look down the hallway at him.

She did, of course, and still smiling, she said, "Good morning, Tate," and walked past him, her shoulder brushing his briefly as she went.

Tate couldn't imagine how stricken he must have looked, because he felt like howling. It was true, seeing her had become easier. This longing, this...aching for her, had not. The worst part had been her never-wavering smile. It was an indicator to Tate that Violet had totally and completely moved on. She didn't suffer anymore, and although that was the only thing he had ever wanted for her, the fact that he no longer affected her made him want to die in painful, torturous ways.

This was what Hayden was going through, Tate thought, and he felt an overwhelming pity for her. He couldn't go to her, though, not yet. He had to compose himself first, and that might take some time. He was used to feeling a bit normal, a bit less unstable.

He changed pace and went down to the basement. He felt as if something was calling him there, some perverse version of that line of fate that drew him to Violet. The power and evil of the house was based out of that dark, dank room, and the deepest parts of him wanted to go there when he was feeling weak and powerless. It was in that basement that he had originally found the rubber suit, and when he'd put it on he'd felt such power and strength. Such invincibility.

He stopped midway down the stairs, hearing voices. Voices became something that you got used to in the murder house, voices and crying and screaming. Especially in the basement. This time, something in Tate, something that ran even deeper than the darkness buried inside of him, stilled and listened.

"What is _wrong_ with you?" Chad's voice was petulant, almost whiny, but Tate's practiced ears could hear the pain behind it.

"There's nothing _wrong_ with me, princess. I'm dead. I'm dead and bored and it _amuses_ me." Patrick's answer was sharp and hurtful.

"God, what is wrong with _me_?" Chad continued, as if he was talking to himself. "What is wrong with me that I didn't know this was going on, right in this house, right under my nose? Not some twink at a bar you're fucking in your tacky cowboy costume, but someone in _our house..._ "

"It's not our house!" Patrick yelled, his voice less controlled.

Tate went down a couple more steps and he could see them, barely anything but shadows down here in the dark basement.

"A _woman_ , of all people. No, not even a woman. A _girl._ If I'd have known you liked pussy so much, I'd have gotten a cat instead of wanting a baby!" Chad was still talking to himself, pacing back and forth.

"Stop being such a bitch, Chad. We're stuck here together forever and ever. What's wrong with an open relationship? Why does it matter? Why does any of it matter?"

"Because I love you, you asshole!" Chad was nearly shrieking, his voice now choked with tears. "I always loved you," he said, softly, brokenly.

Watching from the stairs, Tate felt a spear of pity for him. He felt remorse roil in his stomach. He'd done this. He'd trapped them here together at a moment of misery and pain and they were doomed to relive it over and over again. He kept watching, feeling powerless to move up or down the stairs.

Patrick had been standing stock still. Now he moved toward Chad, his hands out. "I love you, too, baby, you know that."

Chad jerked away from him. "Don't touch me. I know what you are, Patrick. You've defiled that poor girl. That innocent. You were always a cheater but you were never a monster. You're no better than Tate."

"Watch it," Patrick said, his tone warning.

"No, you're worse!" Chad spat. "At least he _can_ love. You can't do anything but hate and hurt and destroy. Me. Violet."

Tate started at Violet's name, and one tennis shoe squeaked on the stairs.

Both the men looked around.

"Oh, good," Chad said, "speak of the devil."

Tate stood awkwardly. "I'm sorry," he said, and turned back to go up the stairs.

"What did you say?" Patrick's voice had a different warning in it now, a harsher, deeper baritone.

Tate turned to look at him. "What?"

"Say it again."

"Say what?"

"What you said before."

"I'm...sorry?" Tate stood hesitantly on the stairs for a moment, not understanding.

Patrick rushed at him, quicker than Tate could blink. Patrick tackled him around the waist and Tate went down on the stairs hard. He felt a sickening crunch in his back and pain flared up his spine. Over Patrick's shoulder, Tate could see Chad leaning against the wall, watching silently.

"Don't you ever apologize, you son of a bitch!" Patrick yelled at him, in his face, and Tate could feel the heat of his breath. Patrick threw a heavy punch into Tate's stomach, and anything Tate could have thought of to say was taken away along with his breath.

"You don't ever apologize to me! You did this to me! You made me what I am!" Patrick went on punching, and Tate's lungs began to ache and burn. When Patrick let up for a moment, Tate took in a breath and his bruised and broken ribs screamed. Then Patrick threw a sharp uppercut to his jaw and Tate's vision blurred for a moment as the back of his head slammed into the stone steps beneath them.

Patrick leaned in close, and through a haze Tate could see the terrible smile on his handsome face. "I should have done this a long time ago," he whispered.

Patrick flipped Tate over as if he were a rag doll and tore his jeans down.

"Patrick, what are you doing? Stop it! Don't-" Chad's voice seemed to come from very far away.

Tate couldn't see what was happening, couldn't seem to lift his head, but he heard a crack and Chad cry out.

He heard the sound of a zipper and faintly, of someone sobbing.

Tate closed his eyes and let his body go limp under Patrick. He deserved this and anything Patrick could dish out. He deserved to be beaten within an inch of his life every day for a decade for the things he'd done. The people he'd hurt, killed in cold blood.

There was an enormous, unreal amount of pain, but Tate couldn't tell its source. He couldn't tell if it were his body or his soul that was splitting in two. The world was full of pain. It was full of pain and horror and vengeance, and Tate fought for consciousness, because he wanted to feel all of it. He wanted to be part of this world, because he deserved it. Because he had created it.

Just before blackness and numbness took over, he felt wetness on his back, soaking through his shirt, and he realized that the sobbing had been Patrick all along.

He came to with a large, blissfully cool hand on his face. He opened his eyes to see Patrick floating above him. His face looked different, softer. "I'm sorry," Patrick said gruffly. "I'm sorry for what I've become."

And he was gone, and there was only the cold stone floor and the pain.

Tate tried to move and screamed when he found that the numbness was gone. He felt as if his skin had been replaced with broken glass. He managed to roll over onto his side and the cement floor was black with his blood. He coughed and more blood spattered onto the floor.

His stomach felt bloated and liquid. He was bleeding somewhere inside. He was dying. Again. Fear washed over him as he realized this was only the second time. He knew that he had died long ago, bleeding out on his bedroom floor, but he couldn't remember. He only remembered the spreading pain of that first bullet, and then waking up on the basement floor, not far from where he was lying right now.

His breath was shorter and shorter and suddenly, he realized that he didn't want to die here. Not here in this basement where he had dumped his bodies. Not here near that black power source humming and calling. He felt afraid. He felt afraid that if he died here and came back, that power would come back inside of him. It would multiply his darkness, amplify all that was wrong and twisted inside of him.

Tate moved again, onto his bloated stomach, and a fresh gout of blood came up into his throat. He vomited, choking on it, but he placed his forearms on the stone floor and shoved himself forward a few inches. His fingers clutched for the lip of the first stair and one of his fingernails caught and tore down to the quick, just another tiny flare of pain in his dying body.

It took a million years to get up the stairs. He left a trail of blood behind him, and he couldn't have said where he was bleeding. He was bleeding everywhere. He wondered if he would remember this death. He wondered if he'd see a bright light or hellfire before he returned to this prison.

He paused for a moment at the top of the stairs, catching his breath. The power in the basement called to him, told him to close his eyes, just for a moment, and the pain would go away. Tate hitched in a painful, final breath and lunged up from the stairs to reach the doorknob. His bloody fingers tried to slip off of it but he managed to still them, turn the knob, and hurl his body over the threshold.

The basement door slammed shut behind him, as if angry, and the hardwood floor felt like heaven on Tate's aching, swollen face. He exhaled slowly and painfully, and then a blissful paralysis began to move up his body, taking the pain with it. The lack of pain was not a comfort for Tate. He'd been in pain for so long. So many years he'd been aching and longing for something that he couldn't describe, something to fill the hole inside of him.

He was afraid, and in that fear, tried to take in a sharp, shallow breath. It wouldn't come. Blood filled his lungs, and Tate Langdon died for a second time.


	20. forever in debt

From the kitchen, Violet heard a scrabbling sound at the basement door. Fear, familiar and cold, seeped into her bones, and it was strange to remember how little she had felt that emotion before moving into this house.

She walked to the edge of the kitchen, almost to the hallway, and fear stopped her there. She stood there for a moment, listening. That scratching, scrabbling noise. It could only be Thaddeus, that horrible, evil thing that was the epitome of all the dark and evil in this house. It could only be that abomination, finally coming up from the basement to devour them all.

Suddenly, the basement door swung open and Violet closed her eyes tight, not wanting to see Thaddeus charging down the hall at her. After what seemed like an hour of loaded silence, Violet opened her eyes.

A body lay on the hallway floor. A puddle of blood was spreading on the hardwood. Instinctively, Violet went down the hallway toward the body. She got closer and a low whining scream began to build in her throat. The blond mop of curls, the striped, bloody sweater. She got a foot away from the body before she completely allowed her mind to accept the fact that it was Tate.

Tate, who had somehow managed to both rape her mother and steal Violet's heart in the space of a year; who had looked at her as if nothing else had ever mattered in his dark, bleak world.

Images, memories, their time together flashed before Violet's eyes as she stood there, trying not to scream, her eyes growing wider and wider.

That look he'd given her while he was sitting on her father's tacky office furniture, something in his eyes drawing her in like a magnet. Tate's tortured black eyes the first day she had pushed him away in the basement, as if she'd torn him apart by rejecting him, even that soon, less than a week after they'd met. His lips, his mouth on hers, soft and gentle and yielding to her as he'd kissed her in the basement while wearing that cursed rubber suit. His arms around her as she died, so tight around her, his chest quaking with emotion, his voice sobbing for her, screaming for her to live. That small, pleased noise he'd made in his throat when she'd first admitted that she loved him, and then the black panic taking over his eyes when she'd followed that with rejection. His soft, fluttering kisses on the bruises he'd made on her throat, his warm tears on her face that night in the backyard.

Her own tears flooded down her face, soaking the collar of her shirt, and she let go, let her emotions take hold and went down on her knees, gingerly touching his broken body, his face. His clothes were torn, his jeans and underwear bloody and barely covering him. He wasn't moving, wasn't breathing, and his eyes were staring at nothing, such a flat, matte black that it terrified her.

Violet had known Tate was dead almost all of the time she had known them, but she this was different. Tate had appeared unmarked; she could feel his heart beating, feel his breath on her neck. Now the boy she had loved and sent away was lying dead and bloody on the floor and it was too much. She could feel her stomach churning, her heart pounding, her eyes burning as if her tears were made of flame. She didn't remember dying but she knew it hadn't hurt like this.

Crying so hard her abdominal muscles ached, Violet stood and wrapped her thin arms around Tate's broad shoulders. She pulled hard, and his body moved slightly on the floor, making a sickening squelch as his clothes broke loose from the drying blood on the floor.

The muscles in her arms and shoulders screamed at his dead weight, but she slid Tate's body inch by inch across the floor. She got him just inside her doorway and she slammed her door shut.

If Travis had been waiting for her in her room, he was gone now, probably out buying cigarettes. Violet was thankful for that, because she didn't want to hurt him by screaming at him to go. Nothing mattered right now but Tate coming back. She wanted him to wake up with her, wake up somewhere kind instead of in front of the basement door, covered in blood.

She slumped down on the floor and turned him over, drug his head and shoulders into her lap and held him, staring down into his flat eyes, willing him to come back to her, to wake up, to make the screaming inside her chest go away.

She waited for what seemed like hours, days, years. She didn't know what the turn around was on dead ghosts, but it seemed too long. For a long, aching moment, Violet thought maybe he wouldn't come back. Maybe she would just sit here holding his dead body while his tortured soul moved on to purgatory or hell and she felt as if she would wait here forever for him, for years until her mother or father or Travis came and forced her screaming out of the room away from him.

Then, finally, mercifully, she saw those black eyes change, begin slowly to fill with Tate's essence. His eyelids came down in a slow blink, and then he finally was there, seeing her.

He jerked a bit in her arms. "Violet?" he said, brokenly, seeming baffled, and something broke loose in her chest and Violet began to sob again uncontrollably, her chest and stomach hurting from the force of it.

Tate tried to sit up, and had to forcibly move her arms from him. He shifted on the floor, turning quickly, his wounds evidently healed as he had come back to his body. Before he could reach out to her or push her away Violet climbed into his arms, wrapped herself around him completely, her wrists coming together at the back of his neck.

She buried her face into his chest and breathed him in and he smelled like blood and sweat and faintly, of sandalwood and it was so much Tate that the tears came even harder and faster.

His arms came around her, slowly, gently, and then as he felt her yield to them, felt her body pressing closely to his, he locked his hands around her lower back and tightened around her, almost painfully and it felt so right that Violet could barely stand it. He rocked on the floor and she could feel his chest heaving against hers, feel his heart beating fast and hard along with hers.

"Oh, Violet," he moaned brokenly, and she felt more tears flooding down the back of her shirt as he held her even more tightly.

She could barely breathe, her ribs aching, but it wasn't enough. "I love you, Tate," she whispered, lifting her head to his ear, feeling his curls on her face, her mouth.

Tate froze, stopped rocking, his arms loosening around her.

She hadn't planned to say those words, hadn't planned anything that had happened since she'd found him in the hallway, and suddenly she wanted to see his face so badly she couldn't stop herself from pulling away, lifting her head to see him.

His eyes were like black flames. He searched her face. "Don't say that," he choked out.

"I love you," she said again, and it was still a whisper because her throat was aching from the tears and screaming she'd done earlier. "I love you so much, Tate."

His eyes were all over her face, her mouth, her chin, and when he finally locked in on her eyes she wanted to look away but she couldn't. She felt that humming line between them stronger and stronger and she thought she could never be close enough to him, that it would never be enough.

"Violet," he said, her name sounding soft and lovely in his mouth, and he kissed her. His mouth was soft and yielding to her, just like the first time, and when he pulled away tears were still streaming down his face. "You don't mean it," he said, and he smiled a broken, humorless smile that cracked Violet's heart straight through.

"Don't ever go away again, Tate. Even if I ask you," Violet said, without thinking, without knowing what she was going to say, and then she realized she meant it completely.

He put his hand on her face, his fingers caressing her jaw, his thumb passing over her lips.

"I'm in hell, aren't I? In a moment, I'll wake up on fire and you'll be sitting there, just out of reach. I didn't come back. I didn't come back this time and now I'm in hell." Tate's words were soft, flat, as if he didn't mind one way or the other.

Violet put her hand over Tate's and moved her face into his palm, loving the feel of his skin on hers.

Violet smiled at him, and Tate made a noise in his throat, his pupils seeming to disappear into the blackness of his irises.

"I forgive you, Tate."


	21. i can't complain

"I forgive you, Tate."

He had heard the words as if they were coming from very far away. He'd waited to hear Violet say those words for almost a decade, and now, he wasn't sure if it was real.

In fact, he was almost certain that it was not. Maybe in death he'd begun to dream again. He was dreaming such a wonderful and cruel dream.

Violet in his arms, her whispered words of love and comfort, everything coming out of her mouth that he'd ever wanted her to say. Her eyes, warm and brown and shining with tears, her turning her face into his palm, her smile.

Tate's mind was yelling at him to pull away from dream Violet, to stop enveloping himself in her smell, her soft breath on his neck. His mind kept pleading with him to wake up now, before it was too late. Every second he stayed with her was another injury, another crack in his already aching heart.

It was all too much...the way she looked at him, the way she had climbed into his lap, sat huddled in his arms.

It was unbearable, this dream of his, unbearable because he would eventually have to wake up.

Tate wanted to scream.

Instead of screaming, he felt tears flooding down his face and he only held Violet tighter, buried his face in her long, silky hair, breathed in her clean, simple scent, felt the soft, vulnerable skin on her throat against his flushed cheek. If this was a dream, he hoped he slept for days. If he was in hell, he hoped this would be his punishment for a thousand lifetimes. Even if he was set on fire every hour for a hundred years, these small, still moments with Violet would be enough.

"Promise me, Tate." Violet's voice was muffled.

He pulled away enough to look at her, his head spinning from the nearness of her, that drug that was Violet. "What?"

"Promise me that you'll never go away again. No matter what." Her dark eyes searched his face, almost frantically.

"Violet, I-"

"Please, Tate. Please, I can't-"

Her voice broke, and Tate couldn't bear her pain, even if she was dream Violet, even if her tears were false. "I promise. I promise I'll never go away again."

She smiled at him, and that smile shattered Tate's heart all over again.

It had been so long since she'd smiled at him in that way. That smile meant only for him.

That smile began to fade around the corners as she looked at his stricken face. "Are you okay?"

"No," Tate said softly, trying his hardest to burn her face right now, that wilting smile, her warm, open brown eyes, into his memory forever, to keep it with him after he woke.

"You don't believe me, do you?"

Tate shook his head, slowly, still feeling as if he were in a dream.

"You came back to me, Tate. You died there in the hallway and I was so afraid you wouldn't come back, but you did. You're here with me, now."

"With you?" Tate asked hesitantly, uncertainly, not daring to hope.

"Right here with me. Forever."

At that last word, Tate hitched in a breath so deep it hurt his lungs.

"I'm a bad person," he said, almost whispering.

"Tate-" Violet tried to interrupt.

Tate went on as if she hadn't spoken. "Because if this is real, if you're telling the truth and you really do love me in spite of who and what I am, of what I've done... I don't deserve this. I should go away."

Violet was shaking her head violently at this idea. "No, Tate. I do mean it. I do love you. I always have. I always will and I don't want to do this anymore. I can't do this. I can't pretend I don't want you. I can't pretend it's not killing me inside to watch us grow up and apart. I can't pretend I don't want to be with you every second-"

Tate cut her off by placing his finger on her lips, his heart swelling so much he thought it might crack his breastbone. There it was, that cursed hope, taking flight up from his gut and into his throat, where it would flutter and flounder until it was crushed down, bore down into the depths of his black soul, just as it had been almost every day for seven years.

"I'm warning you," he said hoarsely, "if you tell me this is what you want, that _I_ am what you want...I don't think I can ever let you go again."

"Then don't!" Violet's eyes were glittering with emotion and they grew wider as she looked at him. "Don't. Keep me here forever, imprison me if you have to, just don't go away, Tate."

Tate looked at her, uncertainty in his black eyes. It was impossible that Violet was actually saying these things. His Violet didn't say these things, even if she wanted to, and he knew that.

Then Violet took his hand and placed it over her heart. She looked into his eyes and he couldn't tear his gaze away. "I'm here. I'm real, and you're the only thing I've ever really wanted. I was right, all those years ago. You are the darkness, Tate. There are things broken and wrong inside of you."

"Yes," Tate said, wanting to look away in shame but unable to.

Violet went on as if he hadn't spoken. "They're in me, too. Even more since I found out what you did, since I died. I know that nothing will ever be perfect. We died before we were eighteen, we're trapped souls in a house full of hellish people and an awful power. Once you said that I was the only light you've ever known. Maybe that's true, too. Maybe I'm your light, and I'm guiding you home."

Looking into her eyes, Tate took in another deep, lung aching breath and he tasted blood in his mouth. The hope flooded over him, now, not fluttering now but soaring, because that coppery taste meant that he was here. That meant that he had died in the Murder House a second time and been granted this second chance. He had been granted this blessing, this kindness, and he was so grateful he could have gone down on his knees in the basement of this prison and kissed the concrete floors.

Instead, he kissed Violet, and she made this little kittenish moan in her throat and he was instantly hard. The arms he'd locked around her lower back went up under her shirt, pulling it off her in haste.

She met his intensity with her own, pulling away, her fingers deftly sneaking down into the waistband his bloody jeans, her hands so soft on his taut abdomen, and then she had his cock in her hand.

He drew in a sharp breath, and because it was Violet's hand, Violet looking up at him wantonly, it was almost too much, he was this close to bursting in her hand and ruining their reunion completely.

He batted her hand away, gently, and kissed her again, covering his body with hers until she lay flat on her bedroom floor. He kissed her chin, her throat, and as he went down below her earlobe he saw an unmistakable love bite. Blood seemed to burst through all of Tate's veins in a surge of jealousy and pain and in his head he saw it again, Travis's hands on Violet's pale skin, her body arching up to meet his. A low growling was building in his throat, and he pulled away to look down into her eyes.

"If anyone else ever touches you again, I might have to kill them," he said hoarsely, and at once he was sorry he said it, and even sorrier that he meant it. Things were different, now. Before, he'd wanted her to be happy, even if that meant being with someone else. Now, he knew that she wanted him, and he knew that she was his, irrevocably. Now, he didn't think he could control the darkness when it came boiling up inside of him.

"I'm sorry," he said, and he thought for the hundredth time that apologies were useless. He continued anyway, hoping that she would understand. "I'm sorry for what I am."

Violet put her hand on his face, giving him that half-smile that meant she was humoring him a bit.

"I love you for what you are," she said, and she put her arms around his neck and brought his face down to hers.

She kissed him, her lips soft and yielding to his, and in an instant, he was inside her, enveloped in her velvet heat, and he thought there was absolutely nothing for the rest of eternity that could match this moment.

He moved slow at first, and then whenever he saw her face change, her body buck beneath his, he moved faster, a trick he had learned with another woman. He was suddenly both glad and ashamed of his experiences with Hayden, but now Violet was making the sexiest noise deep in her throat, and he stopped thinking, all of the nerve endings in his body seizing up at once.

She moaned his name, over and over, and it pushed him over the edge.

He was sorry, after, that it hadn't lasted longer, but Violet was glowing and laughing, snuggling up close to him, her skin slick with sweat as he pulled her close.

"So what now?" Tate asked, tucking her under his arm and looking down at her.

"You and me. Together for always." Violet repeated his words back to him, and they both smiled.

Violet had been right. Nothing would ever be perfect, because of how they'd met, their situation. Nothing would ever be perfect, but it was closer than Tate had ever known.

Happiness flowed through the nearly empty Murder House that Halloween, and although the dark source of its power pulsed below them in the basement, at that moment, Tate and Violet knew that they had found their way back to each other. If they broke apart again, they would find their way back to each other once more, holding on to that line of fate, forever humming between them, stronger than death, even stronger than the source of the evil living in the Murder House.

 


End file.
